


This Could Be Really, Really Good, or Really, Really Bad

by magniloquentChanteuse



Series: And the Day Turns to Night [1]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A couple of times tbh, Angst, Bad stuff happening to minors, But there will be fun times too, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Loves Peter Parker, Families of Choice, Grief/Mourning, Identity Reveal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Identity, Team Building, Whump, sassiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 207,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magniloquentChanteuse/pseuds/magniloquentChanteuse
Summary: Peter Parker had been Spider-Man for five months and things were looking up. The beautiful and intelligent Gwen Stacy was showing interest in him. He found budding friendships with the Avengers. His reputation was growing in New York City. Spider-Man seemed to be at the top of his game and Peter Parker was finally regaining his footing after the death of his Uncle Ben.But as Gwen lamented his lack of attentiveness, the Avengers sniffed around Spider-Man's secret identity, and a mysterious man with a strange power and a terrifying plot emerged, Peter realized that he still had a lot to learn about leading this life he'd chosen.And with tragedy poised over his head, ready to fall, Peter was going to need to learn fast.





	1. The Start of Something

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first real fic I've attempted to write since 2014...and I really think I've improved as an author since then. And since I've been on a pretty crazy Spiderman kick lately, I thought I'd give this a shot.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, because I'm trying a lot of new things with this that I've never done before and I'm dying to hear what you think.

**April**

 

With no more energy to direct himself, Peter’s feet automatically carried him forward. At least he could be grateful for that.

 

He was out of breath, gasping as he tried to suck in air through his panic. He could hear the roar of repulsors somewhere above him, and there were shouts somewhere behind. Cap was certainly gaining on him, even if the others couldn’t keep up with his speed. Normally he wouldn’t have a problem getting away, he thought, torn between desperation and envy towards his normal self. The misshapen lump at his shoulder and the agony he’d felt when he’d tried to swing into the air assured him that he had dislocated it: there was no way he could support himself like that. Not if he wanted to maintain any kind of respectable speed.

 

_ God,  _ he wished this city would get some sleep. He would feel much better without all those eyes on him, right now. Spider-Man tended to paint a very noticeable picture, even when he wasn’t dripping a trail of blood behind him, sprinting through the streets of New York: anyone could point his pursuers in his direction right now.

 

He groaned, nearly slamming into a wall as he caught sight of the alley and turned to duck down it. He used his good arm to sling a web to the dark shape behind a trash can, dragging his backpack up to his chest. His bad arm, somewhat more feebly, lifted just enough to shoot another web up towards a high building. Instead of grabbing on, though, he stuck it to his backpack and  _ threw  _ with his good arm, giving the thing as much momentum as he could manage. Please let them follow that long enough for him to get away in the other direction, he thought helplessly. He watched just long enough to see it start to arch upwards before wrenching one of the dumpster lids up and toppling inside, letting it slam shut behind him. 

 

He landed in the bottom, feeling a splash under him. The thing must have been recently emptied, he thought, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to hear over the hammering of his own heart. Peter’s breath was loud and ragged in his ears, so he clamped both hands over his mouth, trying to stifle the sound.

 

Lying in trash juice in a dark dumpster, alone, in more pain than he could ever remember being in. Yeah, that sounded about right, he admitted with a grimace. 

 

Then he heard heavy footsteps and realized that Captain America had caught up with him. He stopped breathing entirely, body shuddering. Please let this work, he begged silently. Please let this work. He couldn’t bear it if they caught him. If they took away the last thing he had.

 

The footsteps slowed to a stop right outside his hiding place and Peter managed to stifle a groan before it emerged. If he listened, he could hear Cap talking.

 

“The blood trail ends here,” the soldier was saying, voice tense. “He must have hit the sky. Stark?” A long moment of silence. “See if you can find a trail up there. Clint. Anything?” More quiet as the captain apparently listened to someone speaking over their comms system. “A backpack?” He repeated, sounding displeased. “Take it. Maybe there’s something we can learn there.”

 

Peter opened his eyes, fear coiling in the pit of his stomach. How had everything gone so badly, he wondered, trying to reconcile his current state with his memory of himself from just a few months ago.

 

“Keep looking,” he heard, but the sound was muffled, now, and his vision swam as his eyes shut and he thought of-

 

\---

 

**September**

 

Time almost seemed to move in slow motion as Gwen Stacy spun to face him, blonde hair flowing around her head, expression so perfectly surprised and relieved that he swore his heart skipped a beat. The light was behind her, causing a halo effect, and it occurred to Peter that she might be the prettiest person he’d ever seen.

 

“Spider-Man!” She exclaimed, watching as he pinned the gun he’d tugged out of the would-be mugger’s hand with a swath of webbing.

 

“Not to worry, miss,” he said, another strand  _ thwipp _ -ing from his web shooter as the mugger tried to lurch for the gun. It caught him by the hand and pinned him to the wall. “Everything’s under control.” He managed to keep his voice from cracking, somehow, shooting a second strand which pinned the guy to the wall, but he noticed her strange expression anyway. Everyone always gave him that look, he thought with no small amount of frustration. His voice just sounded too young. Eventually that problem would fix itself, but in the meantime, Peter needed to come up with some kind of a solution. 

 

“Get this shit off of me!” The man was shouting, struggling as he attempted to yank his hands free.

 

“Nice try, buddy,” Peter strolled over, casually leaning against the wall next to him, face angled towards the man even as he watched Gwen out of the corner or his eye. He tried to make his voice sound a little older. “There’s no way you’re getting through that until the police get here. Miss?” He addressed Gwen, then, noting the way she was staring at him with wide eyes, phone clutched to her chest. “Would you mind calling 911?” He tried to avoid talking on the phone with police as much as possible, given their anti-vigilante stance. The last thing he wanted was to get in trouble because he’d accidentally given them a clue.

 

“Sure,” she agreed, seeming to snap back to attention. Her fingers fumbled with the phone and Peter noticed that she was shaking.

 

“Hey,” he hopped over, one hand resting over hers on the phone. “Calm down. It’s okay now. I’ll wait with you, okay? You don’t have to be alone, you’re going to want to give a statement to the police. But I’ll stick around. Okay?” His classmate looked at him- they were almost on the same eye level, despite her being older than him. At least he wasn’t shorter, he sighed with some chagrin. There was already an uncomfortable knowledge in her expression as she gave a quick nod. She lifted the phone to her ear without another word and Peter waited as the phone rang. Gwen straightened unconsciously as someone on the other end picked up.

 

“Yes! I was- someone just tried to mug me.” Her eyes flicked over to the mugger, who was desperately trying to unstick his hands. “No, I’m okay, but Spider-Man...yes. He’s stuck to the wall. Yes: I’m near 191st Street and 90th Avenue- yes. Okay, thank you.” She hesitated a moment longer, then hung up, turning to look at Peter again. “The police are on their way,” she said, studying his face. Or, rather, his mask. “Thank you, Spider-Man.” She took a shuddering breath, but then her lips formed a smile. One meant for him. His heart lifted and he felt his face warming under the mast. “Are you alright?”

 

“Me?” His voice was uncomfortably high. “Yeah, definitely. He didn’t even get off a shot, don’t worry about it.” He grinned under his mask, but he doubted that she could tell. “Thanks for the concern. What’s your name?” He asked her, even though he knew. He couldn’t resist talking to her for a little longer, even as he heard police cars approaching.

 

“Gwen Stacy,” she answered, fidgeting a little, presumably from the nervous energy of the leftover adrenaline. 

 

“Nice to meet you, Gwen.” He stuck his hand out, apparently surprising her again, if her hesitation before she shook it was anything to guess by. “I’m just sorry that we had to meet under this kind of, uh, circumstance.”

 

“You, too,” she agreed, her smile returning, wider this time. “I always wondered-” The sirens pulled up behind him and Peter heard shouting.

 

“Gotta go,” he gave her a cheerful little salute, leaning back casually into the air even as he shot a web up to the roof, launching himself off of the ground. He shot a glance over his shoulder to see Gwen still watching him as the police hurried over, looking frustrated.

 

Peter swung away, paying attention for any further disturbances as he threw himself through the streets. He whooped into the wind, despite himself. He’d saved plenty of people from similar situations by now, but that had been his  _ classmate _ , he thought reverently, somersaulting in the air as he threw another web out to catch him.

 

A classmate who was at the top of her class, he thought, embarrassment flooding his features again as he came to a stop on a rooftop, flopping down on the edge, legs dangling. Who he’d fantasized about talking to more than once. She was...incredible, honestly. It would be a stretch, he supposed, to say that he had a crush on her, but there was definitely a certain amount of admiration there. To have been able to be in the right place, at the right time, to protect her from something bad happening...it felt like a blessing.

 

“Oh my god,” he shouted, flopping onto his back on the edge of the roof, hands pressing to his head as he felt a surge of giddiness. “Gwen Stacy!” If only this meant that he had a free pass to talk to her, now, he thought wryly. But she would never know that Peter Parker, some nobody at her school, was the masked superhero who’d just saved her from a mugger. It was a shame, obviously, but his secret identity was much more important than the short-lived pride he would get from revealing himself to Gwen.

 

If he was going to do this, he told himself sternly, this whole vigilante thing, he was going to be smart about it. He was going to do it right.

 

That was why he never went anywhere near his home in costume. It was why he took such convoluted routes back. It was why he never let anyone see his costume, why he would sometimes stay out for hours after a patrol, only getting home in time to crash for two or three hours before hauling his butt out of bed for school.

 

Honestly, thank god for whatever super resistance that spider bite had given him, or he would be in a sorry state.

 

Besides, he lectured himself silently, he didn’t do this for the recognition. He didn’t do it because he wanted people to like him: if that were the case, he would have quit heroing in the first two weeks. J Jonah Jameson sure wasn’t cutting him any slack, despite the number of people he’d saved already.

 

He wasn’t doing it for the benefits package, either, he thought with a sigh. Between the constant drain on his income that the repairs to his suit had become and the never-ending, untreated injuries, it was more of an inconvenience than anything.

 

“Must be nice to be an Avenger,” he sighed aloud. “At least they get a paycheck. And medical, probably. And most people don’t hate them.” Not everyone, sure, but most people. It was certainly better off than Peter himself.

 

He sat up, remembering where his train of thought had been going. He didn’t do this for any of those reasons, he told himself fiercely. He did it because it was  _ important _ . Some people didn’t feel like it was their job to help others; it wasn’t their responsibility because the bad things weren’t happening to them. Peter just couldn’t understand that. Because he  _ could _ help, he  _ had  _ to help.

 

He pulled one knee up, propping his elbow on it so he could lean his head into his hand. The other leg swung freely over the ledge. He wondered if this would have scared him, back in April, when he’d first gotten bitten. Probably. He felt so at home, high up, now. Looking over the city like this, watching the strands he left behind swaying in the breeze as they began to disintegrate, he felt peaceful. The wind blew against him with a force that might have rocked him, if he weren’t firmly stuck to the edge of the building, making it almost feel like he was flying. If one could fly with their butt stuck to concrete, anyway.

 

He stood abruptly, feeling a buzz in the back of his mind that put him on edge. Something was happening. His eyes scanned the streets until he caught the sight of flashing lights: a police chase.

 

“Alright, here we go,” he mumbled, rubbing his hands together as he bounced on the balls of his feet, amping himself up. “Round two.” He leapt from the building, letting himself fall, faster and faster as he approached the ground. He got close enough to hear someone scream as they caught sight of him before slinging a web, whooping with exhilaration as he zipped close over the heads of the bystanders at the foot of the tower, headed low and fast for the sounds of sirens.

 

He pulled a hard turn around the corner and found himself in the thick of it, sticking himself to the roof of the fleeing car. Honestly, could his timing be any better? Peter allowed himself a grin as he flopped down almost casually on the roof, listening to the shouting from inside. He leaned down, peering through the passenger side window. Inside were four men, all toting guns and wearing surprised faces. “Hey guys, how’s it going?” He quipped, pulling back quickly as the guns aimed for his face, narrowly dodging a barrage of bullets. There were screams from under him: one of the guys must have hit his bud. “Oh man, you’re gonna want to put some pressure on that,” he leaned down over the other side, quickly webbing one of the shooter’s hands firmly to the bullet wound of his seat-mate. The gun was still in that hand, which probably didn’t feel pleasant. “Ooh, sorry about that. Hey, let’s wrap this up so we can get you to a doctor, huh?” Another shot came at him and he dodged out of the way again, grateful for the tingling sensation that warned him of the danger. “Get it? Wrap it up? Because I’m a spider.” He webbed the second gun to the shooter’s thigh, and yanked the last two out of the car altogether, attaching them to a lamppost they passed. 

 

A glance over his shoulder assured Peter that the police were still right behind, but they couldn’t get too close without risking danger. Alright. He could do something about that. All he needed to do was stop the car. But how? He glanced around at the traffic around them, worried about causing some kind of pile up.

 

“Okay, okay, okay,” he chanted, flopping straight onto his back and allowing his entire back to adhere to the roof of the car. “Here we go.” He shot two webs upward and  _ pulled _ , grunting with effort as he lifted the car upwards, out of traffic altogether. The wheels spun uselessly in the air and there was a stream of curses from the cabin on the car. “Hey, hey, you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Peter demanded, shooting out more webs in order to support the weight of the car without causing damage to the buildings he attached it to. Well, minimal damage, anyway.

 

He heard the police pulling to a stop and the driver’s side door opened as the getaway guy tried to make his escape more singularly, but they were nearly ten feet off the ground, now, and he balked. Peter rolled over, secure in the belief that the car was suspended well enough, and webbed the guy to his seat. “No way, man, you’re going to sit in the car until you can behave,” he scolded, watching as the police approached, guns high. “Never a word of thanks, huh? Don’t worry about it, all in a day’s work,” he assured the officers, standing up. Surely they wouldn’t shoot, he thought, trying to project confidence despite his unease. “The webbing wears off in about two hours, make sure everybody’s out from under the car by then,” he suggested, then hurriedly shot a web, glancing towards the flashing lights again before yanking himself out of harm’s way. No point in tempting fate.

 

Peter made a sharp left at the first opportunity, carrying him out of sight of the police before he allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He didn’t like to interact with them that closely, he thought with a grimace. Although they hadn’t shot at him yet, there was always a chance that the next time would be the first time, and he really didn’t want to get into an actual fight with New York’s Finest. Despite the fact that it would be self defence if he webbed someone to the ground, he still didn’t think that it would go over too well with anyone. Besides, he thought vehemently, if he wanted his reputation to improve at all, he needed to stay on his best behavior. And that meant fighting  _ bad guys _ , not policemen. Maybe a little witty banter was in order, but he didn’t want them hearing his voice too much.

 

It hit him suddenly. “A voice modulator!” He exclaimed aloud, voice snatched away by the wind. “I need a voice modulator! I bet I could make one of those!” Then he wouldn’t sound like such a  _ kid _ , and maybe people would take him more seriously. He brightened at the idea, scrambling back to where he’d ditched his backpack. He needed a notebook, stat.

 

As he swung down into the alley, he breathed a sigh of relief to find that his bag was still stuffed behind the dumpster where he’d left it. It usually was, sure, but he’d lost more than one this way. Aunt May was...never pleased.

 

He slung one of the straps over his shoulder and crawled up to the nearest roof: a better launching point to get higher up than the narrow street, that was for sure. And if he was going to be distracting himself with this while he was on-duty, then he needed to be somewhere high up enough that he would have a wide range of vision. Then, hopefully, his spidey-sense would help him pick up on anything he might have normally missed in his distraction.

 

He abandoned his web, scurrying up the last few feet of the building he’d chosen as his next perch. It had the definite benefit of not having roof access, so he was unlikely to be bothered, up here. Peter had learned the hard way, he thought with a grimace, that New Yorkers were more than willing to chase him off of their roofs, if they found him there.

 

Secure in his privacy, Peter sat cross-legged on the edge of the roof, so that he could see the city even as he ducked his head to tug at the zippers on his backpack. His thoughts turned idly back to Gwen as he wrestled one of the notebooks out, then dug around in the bottom for a spare pen.

 

He did kind of wish that he’d sounded more suave and less squeaky, when he’d interacted with her. Next time, he promised. Well- assuming that there  _ was _ a next time, and honestly, Peter hoped that there wouldn’t be. Obviously it would be much better if Gwen never needed saving again. But maybe they could just socially run into each other or something.

 

“Hey, Gwen, remember me?” He mumbled to himself, deepening his voice as he uncapped his pan and started to scribble into his notebook a list of supplies that he would probably need. “Spider-Man. We met that one time, with the mugger. Oh, no, miss, really, there’s no need to thank me, honestly. I was happy to help.” He smiled stupidly under his mask, tapping the end of the pen rhythmically against the paper as he thought. “Hey, I know your classmate, Peter Parker,” he added, crossing out one of the components. That would be way too big to be feasible. “He’s a pretty cool guy and you ought to talk to him sometime. He likes science, too, you know, you two probably have a lot in common and you ought to give him a shot even though he’s younger than you.” He grimaced, then, voice returning to normal. “Geeze, this is sad.” 

 

Peter shook his head quickly, turning his attention back to the book as he stared at his list, trying to anticipate the issues he would surely come across. He could do this, he told himself firmly. This was way less complicated than his web-shooters, he told himself, and those were way less complicated than the web fluid itself. He just needed to figure out a way to sound it natural, he decided, that was the biggest thing. He didn’t really want to go around sounding like a robot. The people of New York would  _ never  _ come to trust a web-slinging, crime fighting  _ robot _ . Nobody wanted the world to turn into Robocop.

 

“Well, except maybe Tony Stark,” he muttered, looking out over the city as he drew up his knee again in order to lean against it, notebook hand drifting to one side. “That guy  _ loves _ robots.” He frowned a little. “Do those suits of his count as robots? He’s got the A.I. in them, or whatever,” he mused aloud. “But the suits themselves...not robots, right?” If he ever met Tony Stark, he’d have to ask him. Until then, he could put the question on hold, he supposed.

 

\---

 

Okay: so Peter  _ did _ manage to explode the voice modulator once. But it was just a small one, it hardly even counted. It hadn’t even really set him back on the completion.

 

“If it doesn’t set off the fire alarm, it’s not an explosion,” Peter assured himself as he tried trimming the wires again, making doubly sure that nothing was connected to the battery. He was struggling to get the thing small enough to be feasible, but he thought that he’d finally managed to get everything settled, as long as these wires wouldn’t touch each other. Then everything should be fine.

 

“Okay,” He lifted up the contraption. It wasn’t pretty, but as far as prototypes went, it wasn’t bad, either. He had all the time in the world to make it better. And, if his Google searches could be trusted, his voice would settle into a more adult tone in the next year or two, and then he could ditch it altogether. “I’m Spider-Man,” he said into the modulator, and was pleased to hear his voice coming out deeper than before. It had a slightly tinny sound to it, but it wasn’t terribly noticeable if he wasn’t listening for it. It sounded like...a person. Just an adult man, and from behind the mask, that tinniness shouldn’t be audible at all. “Awesome,” he said, feeling positively giddy about the success of his newest invention. Of course, he still needed to get it into the suit and field-test it. “I’m Spider-Man,” he said again, muscles tensing as he imagined speaking to some bad guys. “And you have the right to remain silent.” He grinned. “You’re coming with me, dirt-bag,” he snickered. He sounded tougher, for sure. Kind of goofy, with all that garbage, but he was sure that his jokes would sound way less cheesy with a more mature voice attached. Not that he minded the cheesiness.

 

He glanced at the clock, wondering if he had time to make it out that night. It was three in the morning already, he saw, stomach dropping disappointedly. If he went out now, looking for trouble, then he probably wouldn’t make it back home much before five or six at best. There was a quiz in English tomorrow, Peter thought resignedly, so he should probably get some rest tonight. He could go out after school tomorrow and test out the gadget. 

 

But first, he needed to figure out how to attach it to his suit in some kind of reasonable manner. The inside, probably, so that no one would know he’d changed his voice at all…

 

\--

 

Peter’s phone went off just after lunch. It was a News Alert he’d subscribed to: breaking disasters to warn commuters so that they wouldn’t wander into a dangerous situation. A lot of people actually had similar apps these days, Peter knew: it had become pretty important to know what was going on ever since the event that had been dubbed as the Battle of New York. Peter, of course, used the feature for entirely different purposes.’

 

It wasn’t easy for most students to duck out of Midtown High, but the chain link fences weren’t exactly much of a barrier for Peter. The biggest problem was making sure that nobody  _ saw _ him. But then, if one knew which parts of the school to go to, that wasn’t too much of an issue, either.

 

He made it off campus with not a soul the wiser. He’d be missed, when the next class started, he was sure. These things rarely took as little time as he hoped that they would. He’d come up with an excuse, though. He always did.

 

As he ducked behind a building to change, he furtively reread the news alert. “Giant Bees Terrorize Lower Manhattan,” it read. Giant bees? Honestly, what the hell? Who made giant bees and then released them in New York City? A real jerk, whoever it was. He shook his head disparagingly as he slung the first web of the day, launching himself up into the air.

 

Manhattan was a little outside his usual routes, he thought, but that wasn’t a problem. It just meant that he was slightly less familiar with the skyline. He’d been around there enough, though, to make it work. Besides, it wasn’t as if the source of the commotion was difficult to track down. For one, he could hear the droning of wingbeats from blocks away. He could hear the sounds of fighting even further away from that.

 

The Avengers, he thought with a thrill of excitement. The Avengers were there. He could hear the sound of Iron Man’s repulsor blasts. He could hear explosions. That was a little beyond his pay grade, but he was more than willing to throw himself into a fray. After all, who was more qualified to take care of a bunch of giant bugs than a giant spider? Sort of.

 

He rounded a corner and then he saw them: bees the size of horses. That was  _ way _ too big for a bee. Peter gaped, but didn’t hesitate to continue straight into the thick of it.

 

“Whoa!” His mind twinged and he twisted in the air, narrowly avoiding being smeared over the windshield of the Iron Man suit. “Watch it! Okay here we go, comin’ through!” He could hear the voice modulator at work, and he was thrilled that, at least so far, it was standing up to the high velocity forces working on his body. It had been a struggle to make his web-shooters work at speeds like that, but he’d learned a lot.

 

“Woo!” He yelped, catching sight of Hawkeye on top of a building, shooting arrow after arrow. Each shot was accompanied by the sound of an explosion and a downed bee- so  _ that’s  _ who was setting off bombs downtown. Another look around showed him Captain America down on the ground, right in the middle of catching his shield. Now  _ that  _ was an action shot, he thought eagerly, fingers itching to get ahold of his camera. The sound of a gun attracted his attention and he saw, directly below him, the Black Widow getting off an unreasonable amount of shots in a really short time.

 

Come on, come on, he thought desperately. He wanted to hear that catchphrase so bad. It was  _ famous _ . His eyes scanned the ground hopefully.

 

“Hulk SMASH!”

 

_ Yes. Good lord, yes. _

 

“The whole team’s here!” He shouted, elated. All of them! Well, except Thor- but nobody knew where that guy was. On his own world, probably?

 

But then in his distraction he flew right into the side of a bee, knocking the wind briefly out of him.

 

“Oh, boy, oof,” he gripped onto the surprisingly fluffy creature as it bucked under him. “Look at you!” He hauled himself up onto its back, taking a look around to get a clearer picture of the actual situation, now that he was able to put aside his excitement about the presence of the Avengers. They didn’t seem to be doing very well, taking out just one bee at a time like this. “Alright, I can do something about this,” he grunted, looking down at the bee. “See you in a minute, big guy,” he chirped, a web latching onto one of the buildings near the edge of the fight. He got to work, shooting more and more out, literally building a spider web.

 

“Hey!” He called out, spotting Iron Man nearby. The hero’s head turned in his direction even as he kept shooting at the swarming bees. They were  _ everywhere _ . “Get everyone to kill the ones over here first! That’ll get all the other ones-” he dodged a bee as it attempted to sting him and he yelped. That stinger was the size of a sword! That was lethal! “That’ll bring all the other ones over here and they’ll get caught in the web!”

 

He didn’t hear a response, but Iron Man must have heard him and communicated with the rest of his team, because the next thing he knew, the bees closes to him were exploding. Oh god, oh, god, he hadn’t thought that through. He hastily scurried up the web, catching onto one of the bees and hurling it straight into the web where it thrashed, no doubt sending off all kinds of distress signals to the other bees. They would be swarming over here any minute.

 

He worked on hastily expanding the web, trying to take up as much space between the buildings as possible. He caught sight of the bees beginning to turn in his direction and he realized that, for a second time, he’d undersold his own position on the Danger Scale. It was rapidly becoming a ten. “Oh, geeze,” he scurried between the strands of his own web, getting on the other side of it, at least before beginning to shoot off more webs, trying to focus, somehow, on pulling stray bees into the sticky strands and repairing the damage that was being done by the struggling bees.

 

Should he web them up? Probably. But that might be going a little too far with the whole spider-gimmick. He wanted the Avengers to take him seriously, after all, not treat him like some two bit, overly themed nobody.

 

He dodged out of the way as a bee flew straight for him, body curled, stinger extended as it attempted to straight up kill him. It was caught in the web, but Peter was knocked loose by the jostling. “Crap!” He exclaimed, latching onto his web with a new strand, swinging down in a wide arch under it. This launched him, screaming, into the middle of the swarm. He ran straight into another bee, then fell, bouncing off a few more on the way down before he managed to get his bearings enough to latch onto one. The air was so densely packed around him that he couldn’t see any buildings, he thought, worried. There was nothing with enough leverage to get him out of here.

 

His spider sense went off like an alarm clock in his ear and he ducked, but not before something grazed his back, making him hiss as his suit ripped.  _ Great _ , he thought venomously. Another chunk out of his latest paycheck from Jameson, gone. Peter had just spent all of his money on the dang modulator, how was he going to afford to fix this?

 

There was another explosion nearby, sending a shudder through the swarm as Peter wobbled and nearly fell again. “Jesus Christ!” He exclaimed, hunching down on the bee, knees wrapped around its sides. An idea occurred to him.

 

No. It was too cheesy. Too stupid. He couldn’t. He  _ had to. _

 

He shot a web from each hand, forming rudimentary reigns on the bee. Oh, god, this was so great. He hauled hard on the webs, pulling the bee firmly to the right. He banged into a couple of other bees, but the bug couldn’t buck him no matter how hard it tried, and it eventually succumbed to his insistent tugging and he found himself suddenly outside of the swarm, literally riding a giant bee into battle.

 

“ _ Yee-haw! _ ” He shouted, and he saw Black Widow’s head whip towards him from where he was.

 

A glance towards the web showed him that it was nearly full, but also heavily damaged. He steered his reluctant steed towards it, driving it straight into the web. He got back to work immediately, reinforcing the web he’d built already before beginning a second layer over it. They were going to need every inch of web they could get if they wanted to catch these things. Killing them one at a time just wasn’t doing it.

 

“Spider-Man, look out!” It was Iron Man, headed straight for his new web with what must be the queen- and most of her hive- coming right after him.

 

“Oh, crap,” Peter cursed, kicking off a bee and launching himself straight for the ground. He heard glass shattering and the sounds of buildings straining, followed by a series of six repulsor blasts. Peter couldn’t see what was happening; he was too busy hauling himself towards the ground floor of the building nearest him so that he wouldn’t crash into the road.

 

He managed to direct his crash landing to an awning, instead, ripping through it and smacking into a brick wall with significantly less velocity than he would have before the cloth.

 

“You alright, Spider-Man?” He heard a cool female voice asking him, and he sucked in a breath, propping himself up. It was the Black Widow, watching him over her shoulder even as she fired off two more shots into the suddenly less organized swarm. Peter spotted the queen, slumped and motionless, creating a huge drag in his web.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed breathlessly. “Yeah, I’m alright. What about you? You good?” His eyes raked over her and it occurred to him that there wasn’t a scratch on her. Years of experience, he supposed. Or maybe she just knew better than to get stuck in the middle of the swarm. Instead of answering, she just eyed him and gave a curt nod before turning away. Peter took that as his cue to leave, pulling himself back up into the air.

 

He was definitely going to feel this in the morning. Or, you know, right now. He was going to feel it right now.

 

The Avengers were picking off stragglers, now, mostly, and he did his best to round them up, tossing them into the web. His body ached, but he was alright. As the last of the bees fell out of the sky, Peter landed somewhat clumsily on one of the roofs above the web, panting. “Wow,” he thought, watching as the superheroes below him continued firing at the web, killing the remaining squirming bees.

 

“Good work, Spider-Man,” Iron Man drifted upwards in front of him, voice projecting even over the sounds of his flight.

 

“Oh, wow, thanks,” Peter couldn’t help the elation that he felt, actually talking face to face with one of his heroes. Tony Stark! Talking to him! “I mean, uh, you too. Really. That was incredible. Watching you guys, just- ‘ _ pew pew _ !’” His fingers formed guns as he made the sound effect, mining the act of shooting bees. “You guys are amazing.”

 

There were a few moments of silence and Peter snapped back to attention, realizing he sounded like an idiot, but then Tony spoke again. “You’re an excitable one, huh? I get that. You alright? I saw you fall.”

 

“Yeah, yes, thank you, I’m fine,” Peter waved his hands dismissively. “I’m pretty tough, don’t worry about me.” He stretched pointedly. “You know spiders, right? We can fall a long way without getting hurt. Bend, don’t break, that’s what I always say.”

 

“I don’t think that applies,” Iron Man muttered, landing on the roof next to Peter. “Turn around.”

 

“What? No, I,” Tony grabbed Peter by the shoulders and whirled him to face the other direction, exposing the scratch on his back. “Oh, that? It’s nothing,” Peter assured him.

 

“I guess it doesn’t look too bad. Not too deep. You get that from the fall?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Peter lied, muscles relaxing a little when Iron Man released him. He turned back around, looking the man in the mask. “Really, don’t worry. I heal fast.” He smiled, but he doubted that Iron Man could tell underneath his own disguise. 

 

“If you say so. Good work, with that web,” Tony gestured towards the trap. “What is that stuff? Organic?”

 

“Uh, no,” Peter tugged his sleeve up a little to display one of the web shooters, nonplussed. “Mechanical. It’s a nylon-based polymer,” He shot a web into one hand, stretching it out for Tony to see close up. Iron Man’s mask popped open and he looked closely at it, reaching out to touch it. He grimaced as it stuck to his hand and tried to pull back.

 

“How do you carry that much around with you?” Peter stared at him, amazed, before hurriedly using the small cutting edge on his web shooter to cut Tony free.

 

“Oh, well, look,” He tugged the sleeve up a little further, exposing the line that traced along his arm. “It’s actually a fluid right now, and it expands a lot when I shoot it, but I’ve got all these cartridges,” He gestured to his belt, lined with the small canisters. “For if I run out.”

 

“So it turns solid upon contact with air?” Tony pressed, abandoning his Iron Man suit completely to manhandle Peter’s arm, picking at the web shooter. Peter pulled his arm away self-consciously. Was Tony wearing a three piece suit during the entire battle? That seemed impractical.

 

“Kind of. It enters a rapid state of decay, actually,” he told him. “Which is why it dissolves. It hardens really quickly, making it really tough, but then, after that, it turns into powder and just kind of… pffff,” He wiggled his fingers, demonstrating that the webs would blow away on the breeze.

 

“And you made this yourself?” Tony asked, looking disappointed that Peter wasn’t allowing him to examine the tech a little more closely.

 

“Yeah,” Peter’s grin returned, wider now.

 

“You work for me?” Tony asked suspiciously. “I find it hard to believe someone who could make this has escaped my notice.”

 

“No!” Peter held up his hands in front of him. “I don’t, honestly, I don’t.”

 

“You work for Oscorp, then,” Iron Man nodded, as if that made sense. “Yeah, I definitely would have picked up on one of my employees ducking out of work all the time to go save the city. Or, more specifically, Queens, right?” Peter swallowed.

 

“No, I don’t- I don’t work for the Osborns, either,” Peter assured him, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “I like to keep my science...private, I guess? At least for now.” Honestly he would  _ love _ to work at one of those big science firms, someday, but he was fifteen, for Christ’s sake. He had years to go before that.

 

“Damn. So you’re still undiscovered. You ever want a job, Spidey, you come to me,” Tony said, an almost hungry look on his face. “I could always use a few more brains like that hanging around. Hey, have you met Bruce?” He gestured down to where the Hulk was ripping his webbing apart strand by strand, killing any bees he managed to find alive.

 

“The Hulk?” Peter asked skeptically. “I, uh, was kind of under the impression that the smartest idea was to stay away from him.”

 

“No, no, not the Hulk. He’s not always like that,” Tony assured him. “He’s usually very mild-mannered, believe it or not. Super brainy. Very fun to annoy.”

 

“You annoy the Incredible Hulk on purpose?” Peter asked, almost pained. He’d heard that Tony Stark was reckless, but he didn’t anticipate this.

 

“It’s fine. He’s pretty good at controlling his temper.” Tony took a step back, and Peter watched with fascination as his suit closed around him again. “Look, you ought to come back to the tower. We’ll get that back of yours looked at, and you can meet Bruce...when he calms down.”

 

“No- no, I have somewhere to be,” Peter suddenly remembered. “I appreciate it, but really, as much as I’d love to I’m just fine.” He was suddenly feeling antsy. He needed to get back to school. “You got the time?”

 

“Yeah, it’s twelve-forty-four.”

 

“Crap! I’m late. It was super great meeting you, Mr. Stark, really, and I hope to see you around again sometime. Uh- the webbing-”

 

“Dissolves in two hours, Yeah, I think that’s basically common knowledge, by now. You sure you don’t want to tag along?”

 

“No thanks, really! See you!” he agreed, turning to leap from the building.

 

“Well, make sure you get that scratch looked at!” Iron Man called after him, and Peter turned enough to salute him briefly before swinging away.

 

Holy crap, he met Iron Man. He talked with Iron Man. He stifled his giddy shouts until he was certain that he was far enough away that none of the Avengers would hear him, fists pumping in the air as he passed between web strands. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” His personal hero basically offered him a job! He complimented his work, his tech, offered him a job, and then invited him back to the Avengers tower! He almost didn’t even care that he was late; this had officially turned into the best day ever.

 

He completely forgot about his injuries all the way back to Queens, but as soon as he landed in the alley where he’d ditched his bag he remembered.

 

“Oh, god,” he groaned, leaning one hand heavily against the wall. “Oh my god. The Avengers are so above my pay grade. This hurts. Ow.” He straightened up and forced himself to change, checking as best he could for blood on his back, but it seemed that Iron Man’s assessment was correct and it wasn’t even deep enough to bleed. Thank god for that, he’d really gotten lucky.

 

He took off in a jog, feeling tired. That was a much tougher fight than he was used to: muggers and carjackers didn’t really compare to something like that. He did have the occasional villain- Vulture, Hobgoblin, Kraven- who seemed to rise above the rest of the crop, but it was usually pretty small time stuff, compared to the world-ending threats the Avengers faced.

 

But it was worth it, he thought reverently as he snuck back onto campus, if it meant fighting side by side with the Avengers themselves. His superhero role models. Mostly.

 

He made his way to the nurse’s office: he’d missed all of one class and most of another, by now, so his best course of action was to get those absences excused. And the best way to do that was through the nurse.

 

He staggered into the office, maybe a little melodramatically. “Miss Arrow,” he groaned, clutching his stomach. “I don’t feel so good.” The woman turned to face him, looking exasperated.

 

“Mr. Parker,” she scolded. “This isn’t another one of your tricks, is it? Just trying to get out of class?” That was fair, Peter admitted to himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d pulled this.

 

“No way, Miss Arrow,” he leaned against the door. “I feel...queasy. Tired.” He realized he was sweating, and his stomach really was turning over. What was happening? He wasn’t normally this good a liar. The look on her face suddenly shifted to concern as she looked him over.

 

“Alright, Mr. Parker, go lie down. I’ll be in to take your temperature in just a minute,” she told him, gesturing to the door which led to the small, quiet room with a few uncomfortable cots in it. Pete had caught more than his fair share of naps there, over the past few months.

 

He walked slowly into the other room, eyes finding the bed next to the trash can. He legitimately felt like he was going to vomit. What was going on, he wondered again. He didn’t get sick anymore. At least, he didn’t think he did.

 

He flopped heavily on the bed, then grimaced as the movement caused a sudden shift in his stomach and he leaned over, vomiting into the trash. Okay, he thought, trying to collect his thoughts. He was sick for real this time.

 

He was shaking as he lay back. The movement caused a twinge of pain along his spine and he suddenly remembered the cut there. The bees- some of the venom must have made its way into the cut. He shuddered. There was no doubt in his mind that the poison would be lethal to a normal person, but he had no idea what it would do to him.

 

Hopefully this was the extent of it, he thought, eyes shutting. He heard Miss Arrow approaching. “Can I go home? I really feel bad,” he told her, truthfully for the first time this year.

 

“Let’s get your temperature, first. Open up,” she instructed him, and Peter obeyed without opening his eyes. He felt the plastic of the thermometer touch under his tongue and he shut his mouth again, both of them waiting in silence for a few moments before the machine beeped and she pulled it free, clucking with concern. “It looks like you do have a fever: I’ll call your aunt to come pick you up.

 

Normally he would argue, he thought. He didn’t want Aunt May to have to leave work to come get him. But he didn’t think he’d make it home on his own even if they did let him sign himself out, and the last thing he wanted to do was spend the day in the nurse’s office, vomiting his guts out.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbled instead, rolling onto his side in an attempt to get more comfortable. It didn’t really help. He kept his hoodie on, despite his growing warmth, because he wasn’t exactly sure how bad his injuries might be, and the last thing he wanted was for anyone to catch sight of them. He dozed for a while, trying to stay calm about his illness. It was stressful, sure, but he would pull through this. Peter always pulled through.

 

It took almost an hour for Aunt May to show up, although he was sure that she had left work as soon as she had heard.

 

“Peter,” he woke to the sound of her voice, turning towards the hand pressed to his cheek. “My poor boy. Are you feeling alright?”

 

“I feel like crap, Aunt May,” Peter grimaced. Over the last hour he’d puked a couple more times, but he was running on empty, now, so maybe that part was over. “Can we go home?”

 

“Yes, Peter, we’re going home. Come on, I’ve got your backpack.” She helped him stand, and he glanced over at her. Her gray hair was drawn back from her face in a bun, her face lined with worry. She peered at him as he stared, that worry growing. “The nurse says that it’s probably the flu. Let’s go, dear, I’ve already signed you out.” Peter nodded and let Aunt May lead him out of the building and to her car. As he was climbing into the car, he saw her placing his backpack into the back seat and allowed himself to relax. He wouldn’t want to lose that, he thought with relief.

 

He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes as Aunt May climbed into the driver’s seat, pulling away from the school. The gentle movement of the car helped lull him back to sleep for the duration of the ride, which was disappointingly short. The walk up to their apartment felt much longer, he thought dryly, taking his bag from Aunt May as they reached the elevator, despite her protestations.

 

“I got it,” he mumbled, tossing it over his shoulder. He was still tired, still nauseated, but just her being there made him feel better. He felt safe. “Thanks, Aunt May.”

 

“Of course, sweetheart,” she agreed, patting his shoulder as the doors closed, carrying them up to their floor. “Now, I want you going straight to bed. I’ll bring you something to drink in a while, and if you keep it down, I’ll make you something for dinner, alright?”

 

“You’re the best, May,” Peter agreed, following after her as the doors opened and she fiddled with her keys, pulling the right one up to unlock their apartment.

 

“I took the rest of the day off, so if you need something, just let me know. I’ll be here.”

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Peter said reproachfully, following her inside. 

 

“As if I’m not going to take care of my sick nephew,” she matched his tone, shooting him a frown. “Now, go lay down, mister. You need your rest. Call me if you need something,” she said again, more firmly, and he ducked his head.

 

“Yes ma’am. Thank you.” He slumped to his room, kicking out of his shoes by the door and dropping his backpack on the desk. Aunt May wouldn’t go through it, he knew, so his suit would be fine there, for now. He managed to change into pajamas, knowing that he would only prolong his own misery by staying in jeans, and drifted into the bathroom to check his back in the mirror in the process.

 

It was definitely inflamed, he thought unhappily. Red, shiny skin surrounded the cut: nearly as long as his forearm. Iron Man had decided that this wasn’t that bad? Geeze. He couldn’t imagine the kinds of damage those guys amassed. How were they still alive?

 

He shook his head and got out his bottle of alcohol, but because of the awkward angle, the best he could do was pour too much of it haphazardly down his back and catch the excess with a towel. He hissed at the burning pain, but managed not to hurl again as he twisted the bottle cap back on with shaking hands. That would always suck, he thought to himself, no matter how many times he applied it to his own wounds.

 

He pulled on a loose-fitting pajama shirt, then, and drifted back into his bedroom to collapse onto the bed. Tugging the blankets up, he reveled in the sense of safety and security that being home gave him. This was why he kept his identity a secret, he reminded himself forcefully. So that this, his family, his home, it would always  _ stay _ safe. Peter couldn’t imagine that the Avengers had this kind of comfort, no matter how fancy their tower was. He buried his face into his pillow, breathing a sigh of relief.

 

Aunt May would come in soon to check on him, he thought, peace settling over him as he started to drift back to sleep. At this rate, by the time she brought him dinner, he’d probably be feeling better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://iamsuperasexual.tumblr.com/post/172399313361/from-chapter-one-of-my-this-could-be-really


	2. Higher and Higher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in his life, there are a lot of people who want to be around Peter. He couldn't be any happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo, so this took a little longer than I expected, but that's because it turned out to be like, twice my length goal? It didn't feel right to just cut it in half, though, so...here it is. Subject to edits as I find things/as my betas suggest things, but tbh I'm just too impatient to wait to upload this. Thanks for reading, and I hope to hear from you guys soon :)

October

 

“Peter!” 

 

The voice reminded him abruptly of two weeks ago. It was exactly the same as when Gwen had shouted out his superhero name, and he felt a flush of warmth as he turned to look over his shoulder, searching for the source of the sound.

 

There she was: through the throngs of students crammed in the hall, he could see Gwen Stacy waving at him. He was jostled mercilessly for it, but he stopped and stuck himself to a locker in order to keep his balance as he waited for Gwen to catch up.

 

“Thanks for waiting,” she said, sounding excited. That tone sent another thrill of happiness through him. He thought of the look on her face last month when he’d protected her from that mugger and compared it to the one she wore now. The awe was gone, as was that unnerving knowledge behind her eyes, but it was far from an unhappy expression.

 

“Yeah,” he ran a hand through his hair self consciously and started walking again in order to move with the flow of the crowd. “Yeah, no problem. How’re you?” He asked, feeling somewhat awkward. What could she want? Not that he wasn’t thrilled that she was initiating a conversation with him, after all, hadn’t he fantasized about the possibility a million times? But he just couldn’t imagine what she could want with him.

 

“Good, I’m good,” she was suddenly looking a little less confident, too, although the smile didn’t fade from her face. She pushed blonde hair behind her ear and Peter followed the movement. He didn’t have a crush on her, he reminded himself, but he would definitely love to have a conversation. Yeah. “I wanted to talk to you. Is this a good time? Or do you need to get home?”

 

They exited the school building as Peter shook his head quickly. “No, I have time,” he assured her, thumbs hooking through his backpack straps in an attempt to look casual as he hitched it up a little more. “What’s up?” 

 

She was hesitating, now, at the top of the steps down to the sidewalk, but after a minute she pulled a newspaper from her bag. She held it out to him, and he saw a picture of Spider-Man on the front page. Peter cringed internally as he read the headline: “MASKED MENACE STRIKES AGAIN”. He remembered taking that picture, and he had been alone. Uptown. Nowhere near striking anything.

 

But why was Gwen showing him this? His eyes flicked up to her, suddenly worried, and he took in her chagrined expression. After several seemingly endless beats of silence, she spoke again, and he realized that it had been moments.

 

“You took this, right?” Her finger traced over the bottom of the photograph, where it had his name listed as the credit. Her nails were short and unpainted, he noticed. Peter let out a long breath, and then he was nodding his head and, oh god, he couldn’t stop.

 

“Yeah, yeah, that was me. I sell pictures of, um, Spider-Man to the  _ Daily Bugle _ for some extra spending money, you know?” He was scratching at the back of his neck, grinning uncomfortably. He didn’t much like talking about Spider-Man, which he felt was perfectly reasonable, in his position. But despite his completely valid reasonings, he thought wryly, he couldn’t exactly tell Gwen that. “What about it?”

 

“Do you know Spider-Man?” She asked him hopefully, and his nodding finally faded out. If he didn’t screw this up by acting like a complete spaz, his weirdness about the vigilante would certainly scare her off.

 

“Um,” He drew the sound out for a few moments, glancing around. It didn’t seem like anyone was paying attention to them, but… “Not really. I mean, I guess we’ve talked once or twice? But it’s not like I  _ know _ him. Not any better than anyone else, I mean. I just take pictures, you know?” He patted his backpack over his shoulder, indicating where he kept his camera. Incidentally, it was also where he kept his spider suit. Maybe he needed to come up with a better place to hide it.

 

“Right,” Gwen looked mildly disappointed, so Peter hastily spoke again.

 

“Why? Did you, uh, need something?”

 

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Gwen assured him. “I just…” she trailed off, expression shifting into embarrassment. “He saved me, recently.”

 

“He saved you?” Peter gawked, like he didn’t already know that. “What happened? Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine, really,” she nodded quickly, and the way her blonde hair bounced caused a skip in his heart. He really admired her, in a scholarly way. “We live in New York, you know?” She grimaced wryly. “Things happen.” He hesitated, then slowly nodded, which she apparently took as her cue to continue.

 

“As I was saying,” she nudged him with her elbow and Peter grinned, looking bashful himself, now. “Spider-Man saved me. And I wanted to thank him, but it’s not like he’s someone you can just  _ get ahold of _ ,” she frowned. It kind of looked like she’d tried. Peter was disappointed to have missed whatever form her efforts had taken.

 

“You probably thanked him at the time, right?” Peter prompted, realizing that he didn’t want her to feel bad about that. He was pretty sure that she’d expressed her gratitude. He’d been a little too busy trying to look cool to remember completely, but he was certain that she’d said something.

 

“Well, yes,” she agreed in a huff. “But it’s not the same. It’s not right. I want to, you know,  _ do  _ something for him, if I can. It’s not like I can exactly pay him back, but...I just want him to know.”

 

“Know?” Peter prompted, heart fluttering.

 

“How grateful I am,” she answered, voice a little softer, and Peter felt weak at the knees.

 

“I’m sure he knows,” he told her, confidently enough that she shot him a strange look, so he bumbled on. “I mean, it’s his job, right? I’m sure he knows that people appreciate him.” Even if some people tended to throw trash at him. And Triple J up there in his office wasn’t exactly taking it easy on him.

 

But it didn’t matter what the newspaper said, he realized. Gwen was grateful to him. There must be others like her. There must be other New Yorkers out there with a soft spot for a certain web-slinging teen. That thought filled him with a sudden pleasure.

 

“I guess,” Gwen agreed, but her attention seemed to have shifted. Peter looked over at her, and it was clear that she wasn’t ready to let this go, yet.

 

“Okay,” he lowered his voice a little. “Um.” Crap. “How about...next time I see him, I’ll flag him down. Let him know you want to talk.” Gwen perked up immediately, eyes bright as she turned to look at him.

 

“Really? You don’t mind, do you?”

 

“No, no, not at all!” Peter agreed quickly, a smile spreading over his face as he watched Gwen’s own happiness growing. “I’ll, um, text you?”

 

“Great,” she agreed enthusiastically, fishing her phone out of her bag. “Let’s exchange numbers.” Peter’s heart raced in his chest and his face warmed, making him miss his mask. He nodded, tugging his own phone out of his pocket and creating a new contact before handing it over to her. She passed hers over, too, continuing to speak as they input their own information into each other’s phones. “I’ve got my internship with Oscorp after school until eight, most days, but he’s usually active after that, right? If he wants to meet up earlier than that, though, I can always duck out for a few minutes.” She was positively brimming with excitement, now, and Peter found that it was infectious. It was going to be hard, he realized, not immediately finding her after this. He should give it a little time, he thought reluctantly. Make it more believable. After all, what were the odds that Peter Parker would come across Spiderman two hours after he talked to Gwen about this? Pretty dang low, he had to assume.

 

“Yeah, I’ll tell him,” Peter agreed, passing her her phone back and stuffing his own back into his jeans. 

 

“Thanks, Peter,” she said, and this time that gratitude was aimed directly at him, bringing that wide, cheerful grin back to his face.

 

“Really, no problem, Gwen. I’ll text you as soon as I hear from him.”

 

“Okay,” she was beaming back at him, and he realized that the rest of the students had filtered away from them, leaving them in front of the quieting school. “I guess I’d better get home,” she said, tucking hair behind her ear.

 

“Me, too,” Peter agreed quickly. “Home. That’s where I’m going, too.” Gwen’s expression shifted into amusement and he realized that he probably sounded like a dope. “Anyway,” Deep breath, Peter. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” He rolled his shoulders, thumbs hooking back into his backpack.

 

“Definitely,” she agreed, looking pleased. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Peter.” Peter nodded, beaming, then turned to jog down the stairs. Maybe he ought to have offered to walk her home, he thought to himself, but then again, they didn’t know each other all that well.

 

He felt his phone buzz and pulled it out as he reached the bottom, expecting a news alert, but he was surprised to see a text.

 

**Gwen Stacy: We should study together sometime.**

 

Peter looked back up to where she was still standing at the top of the stairs, a smile on her face as she watched him. He laughed aloud, then texted her back

 

**Peter Parker: For sure. I’ve got nothing going on tomorrow afternoon.**

 

Gwen was beaming now, from the top of the stairs. This was so dorky, Peter thought, body thrumming with excitement. He heard her phone go off and then she was typing. Peter didn’t move from where he was rooted.

 

**Gwen Stacy: Me, either. After school, in the library, then. Don’t be late.**

 

**Peter Parker: Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we get in every possible second of study-time. I’m going to need it, with that Spanish test coming up.**

 

**Gwen Stacy: Puedo ayudarte con esto.**

 

Peter looked up at her and she laughed.

 

“Oh, boy, you do need help, don’t you?” She teased, and he grimaced ruefully.

 

“It’s a woeful case,” he agreed. “I’d appreciate any help I could get. I’ve got, like, a  _ C _ in that class. It’s really dragging down my GPA.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, embarrassed.

 

“Well consider me your brand new Spanish tutor,” she came down the steps to pat his arm. “Starting tomorrow.”

 

“You’re a lifesaver,” Peter said seriously, feeling his phone buzz in his pocket. He stiffened, catching Gwen’s inquisitive glance as he checked the alert. A slime monster? Geez, these things just kept getting weirder. “It’s my aunt,” he lied, heart rate picking up as he tried to figure out how to fight a  _ slime monster _ . “I’d better get home. But for real, see you tomorrow, thanks a bunch, and...I’ll text you.” He shot her some finger pistols, a grin spreading back over his cheeks before he turned to jog away, carefully controlling his pace into something that probably looked casual.

 

Of course, it had his backpack slapping obnoxiously against his back, but he would just have to deal until he got out of sight.

 

He forced himself to wait until he had turned a corner before breaking into a run, beating it into the first alley he saw.

 

“Alleys,” he mumbled, tugging his suit hurriedly from his bag. From the continued vibrations of his phone, the police were having as difficult a time coming up with a way to fight the thing, too. “Honestly, isn’t there a better place for a young hero to change clothes?” He huddled behind the dumpster as he swapped his jacket, tee shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes for the spider suit. This was hardly heroic. It was downright embarrassing. Secret identity aside, he couldn’t fathom the humiliation he would endure if someone were to  _ catch _ him changing behind a trash can.

 

But it was worth it, he told himself as he tugged his mask into place, the comforting darkness of the lenses relaxing him a little, as it often did. It was worth it for this feeling. He stuck his hands to the wall and clambered up on top of the deli he’d stopped next to, slinging a web and heading hurriedly for downtown.

 

Downtown again, he thought, snorting to himself as the wind whipped past his ears in that way he’d come to love. Why did so much crap take place in Manhattan? Sure, Queens had plenty of muggings and car thefts and assaults to keep a budding superhero running, but it seemed like all the really  _ weird  _ stuff happened in Manhattan. Not that he was complaining, he thought, making his way into the high rises. He was more than happy to keep the craziness out of his own backyard.

 

Although he couldn’t hear the sirens or shouting, and there didn’t seem to be any smoke to follow, he remembered the traffic alert that had come in on the heels of the first text, telling drivers and pedestrians alike to avoid the area around Washington Square Park. Great, he thought, swinging his way towards it. There wouldn’t be many buildings in range, if the thing was in the park. He’d be stuck using trees and lamp posts to get around. Maybe the Arch, if he was lucky.

 

Oh,  _ there _ were the sirens, he thought, catching sight of two police cars racing by below him. Might as well catch a ride. His web latched onto one of them with a  _ thwipp _ and Peter hauled himself in, no doubt scaring the crap out of the officers inside as he landed hard on the trunk. There was a minor swerve, but the driver quickly got control of the vehicle again.

 

“Sorry,” Peter called, waving a red-clad hand in the back windshield, but the officer abruptly hit the brakes and Peter rocked. “Whoa, hey, settle down there,” he yelped, scampering up onto the roof of the car. It was still slowing, though, so Peter grimaced and leapt back into the air. A glance over his shoulder afforded him a glimpse of the driver’s face: a fuming middle aged man. Not a Spider-Man fan, he supposed. “Thanks anyway,” he shouted back before hooking a web onto a window and speeding up, forgoing his favorite long, slow swings in favor of practically pulling himself through the air with level, fast shots.

 

It took Peter almost twenty minutes to arrive at the scene of the growing pandemonium, but it beat traffic by a long shot. He sailed right over the police barricade, ignoring the shouts of the police below him. Boy, he really ought to stop startling them like that, he thought, or they were going to start shooting at him one of these days.

 

He caught sight of the creature to the west of the fountain: it looked like jello, he thought, hauling himself up on top of the arch to get a good look at it. A faint bluish color. Chunky, he thought with mild disgust. His eyes narrowed as he tried to make out what was inside it, but most of it looked fuzzy and out of focus. That was probably due to the distortion of the goo itself, Peter reasoned, nodding to himself.    
  
He threw out an arm, web catching on a tree across the monster from him. He jumped, pulling himself across in order to examine it closer without just walking up to it. After all, he wasn’t sure that it was safe to approach-

 

He heard the shouts of alarm too late, yelping as some kind of tendril shot up with blinding speed, right in front of him. He let go of the web in order to hastily evade it, spidey-sense blaring in the back of his skull as he twisted, using a lamp post to change his path at the last moment.

 

It wasn’t enough space to swing up, though, so he went tumbling to the ground, teeth gritted as he rolled. He shot a glance towards the police, seeing a line of them with almost humorously matching expressions of shock, but the distraction cost him. He had barely managed to scramble to his feet before another line shot out and caught him around the middle, yanking him backwards towards the jiggling mass.

 

Peter attempted to stick himself to the ground, to keep it from reeling him in, but the substance around his feet was too slippery. He felt a sickening jolt of adrenaline and instead pulled himself out with another web, staggering as he leapt back to the arch, apparently out of range.

 

He looked down at himself, coated in shiny blue gunk. “Gross,” he groaned, dragging one finger through it. It went all the way up to his armpits: he hoped this stuff wouldn’t mess up the washing machine. 

 

He crouched down, trying to assess the situation, and found himself slipping backwards, thumping onto his back on top of the arch. He blinked up at the sunny sky, surprised, and sat up. He scooted his butt a little against the marble and sure enough, it provided about as much friction as a soaped up slip-and-slide.

 

Great, he fumed, frustrated. Now he wouldn’t even be able to stand up. How was he going to deal with a jello monster like this? No matter how hard he tried to stick any part of him below his ribs to the arch, the best he got was a slight drag.

 

Slight drag? No way, this was a  _ major _ drag. Ha.

 

Peter shook himself from his thoughts in order to go back to observing the creature on the ground. He could see that it was moving, now that he was paying attention. It wasn’t making much progress at its current pace, but Peter had learned better than to underestimate it the hard way.

 

“Okay, let’s...think about this.” He had a minute, he decided, to come up with a solution to the slipping problem, then he needed to focus on the beast.

 

He twisted one leg so that the sole of his foot was towards him, then sprayed some web on it before pressing it flat against the slimy surface of the arch. No dice, he thought as it slipped. There would be no keeping his feet in this stuff. That meant he just had to stay out of it. Maybe stay off the ground altogether.

 

He slid to the edge of the monument, looking around. The fountain? He could wash it down into the sewer, he supposed, but that might not take care of the problem: it might just make it an  _ underground sewer problem _ , which sounded about a million times worse.

 

Fire seemed dangerous. There was no telling what kind of compounds made up the thing; it could explode, or let off some kind of harmful gas. No, the solution here wasn’t to loosen the state of matter in any kind of way. He needed to pull it tighter together. Then maybe the thing would have a little more trouble with those grabby arms.

 

“Ally-oop,” Peter swiveled around to face away from the beast, towards the street. There were a couple of NYU building right across the street. That should work. He gave the trigger in his palm two quick taps, the web landing smack in the middle of the door, then pulled harshly, practically throwing himself across the street.

 

Peter also landed smack in the middle of the door. As he scrambled to keep his footing, he could almost hear a Hanna-Barbara-style sound effect in his head. The one where the cartoon characters kept almost falling over, he scoffed with a grimace, using his hands against the door to hold himself up even as his feet slipped over and over again. God, this goo was...messy.

 

He grabbed the doorknob and twisted it open, pleased that it wasn’t locked. He wasn’t exactly sure what the building was for, but it seemed like high school officials were never around when one needed them: it wouldn’t have surprised him if college faculty ducked out even more regularly.

 

He looked up to find what looked like a reception area, complete with a wide-eyed receptionist and two college age students looking like they had been handed signed death warrants. Oh. This must be the dean’s office, he realized.

 

“Hey, don’t mind me,” Peter said, pushing himself off the door and sliding haphazardly across the floor to the desk. “Just your friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man. Doing his Spider-Man thing. Hey, did you know there’s a monster outside? Might sound like a tempting alternative to whatever’s going on here, but maybe tough it out a while longer, huh?”

 

He huffed as he skidded into the desk, steadying himself against it as he leaned over, smiling apologetically behind his mask. “Sorry to bother you guys. I just need to borrow this-” His web shot out, attaching to the fire extinguisher attached to the wall behind the desk. One quick tug sent it flying to his hand. He passed it over his shoulder and allowed it to stick to the upper part of his back, out of the way for the moment.

 

“On second thought,” he carefully turned, bracing himself against the desk of the awestruck secretary. He couldn’t believe that no one else had spoken yet. Well, he hadn’t exactly given them an opportunity to do so. Besides, if someone dressed like him had burst into the principal's office while he was there a year ago, he would probably have had a similar reaction. “It’s probably not going to make it back. But, uh, hey, just tell whoever needs to buy a new one to bill me.” 

 

He aimed a new strand out the open door and tugged, yelping as he skidded back out the door, much faster this time.

 

Back across the street, hastily through the barricade, and right under the arch this time. He tried to pretend that that was on purpose rather than an effect of his near uncontrollable slipping and sliding.

 

It was kind of like ice skating. Peter had never gotten the hang of that, either.

 

Oh, geeze, he was getting...kind of close to the blob. He caught himself on a light pole and hauled the extinguisher off his back so he could adhere to the post instead, facing the creature. It nearly scared the crap out of him when a new arm shot out, directly towards him, and he jerked back, feeling it trying to grab at the front of his suit. He was  _ just _ outside its range. 

 

“Hey chill out,” Peter said, voice breathless. Okay, so it wasn’t his best line, he thought as he aimed the hose at the grasping extremity, but he was pretty distracted. He squeezed the handle firmly, and there was a high pitched, grating sound as the gel began to freeze before abruptly retracting. “Aw, not a fan of the cold, huh? I think New York’s probably a bad place to hang out, then. Especially since it’s gonna be getting pretty chilly here soon-” He lurched forward and the thing grabbed for him again. This time he let it pull him in, jamming the nozzle down inside the beast as he stood chest-deep in slime, depressing the handle firmly.

 

There was a definite growing chill in the creature and it was making that sound again, but that wasn’t what Peter noticed. Standing here, he could see the debris caught in the beast. There were some rocks, some lumpy, kind of mushy-looking globs, and a boatload of small pellets.

 

He peered closer. Who had been  _ shooting _ this thing? That was a stupid idea. He took in the number of them, opening his mouth to shout a reprimand until he noticed something strange. They looked…

 

His eyes shot down and he noticed that his suit was smoking.

 

Oh, god, the blob was  _ dissolving _ the bullets. It was  _ eating  _ his suit. His gaze flashed back to the nearest blob. Now that he knew what he was looking at- was that a squirrel? Crap.

 

“Ugh,” He yelped and used another web to haul himself back out of the goop. It hadn’t touched any of his skin, yet, at least, but he needed to wrap this up fast before it did.

 

He managed to slam to a stop against a police cruiser, panting. “Okay,” he said breathlessly. “Fun fact, our little friend there is using New York as its buffet. We need to wrap this up so that it doesn’t have time to go back for seconds.” He held the fire extinguisher up with one hand, sticking the other to the hood of the car as he felt himself begin to slide sideways. This was kind of humiliating, if he was being honest with himself. “We can freeze it but we can’t get close to it. Anybody here a good marksman?”

 

There were a few moments of long silence, and Peter fidgeted nervously. He recognized, suddenly, the officer from the road: he must have arrived while Peter was over at the dean’s office. He didn’t look happy. In fact, many of the officers didn’t. Well, at least he knew where they stood on the concept of vigilantism. 

 

“Come on, guys,” he cajoled. “Can’t we work together just this one time? I’m not trying to be a menace, scout’s honor,” He held up three fingers, thumb touching his folded pinky as the hand with the hydrant went awkwardly to his chest, signifying his sincerity. “We just need to get this done, right? Then the DODC can sweep in here and… I don’t know, honestly, do whatever they do with all the weird stuff that’s been popping out of the woodworks, lately.”

 

“What did you have in mind?”

 

Peter’s attention was drawn to a man shouldering his way through the crowd. He wouldn’t have been overly remarkable, honestly, if Peter had seen him on the street, under normal circumstances. At least, assuming that he wasn’t carrying that bow with him.

 

“Hawkeye,” Peter tried not to stare. “Wow, you...could not have timed that any better. I’m impressed, seriously. But hey, thanks for the help, I really appreciate you stepping up. I don’t see you Avengers down here with us little guys a lot, this is pretty cool. What are you doing out here?”

 

“I’m not sure that this is the best time to be having this conversation,” Hawkeye commented, gesturing with the bow towards Peter. “You kind of look like you’re going to burst into flame, soon.”

 

“Oh!” Peter looked down, nearly slipping onto his butt as he lost concentration, but he managed to save himself just in time. Thank god. He would  _ not _ have wanted to fall over in front of an  _ Avenger _ . “Right. Good call. Okay, well, here’s the plan,” he held up the fire extinguisher again. “You think you can shoot this if I throw it into that jello cup over there?” Hawkeye snorted derisively, looking almost offended, and Peter hastily backtracked. “That was a request, not a question about your abilities. I was hoping that if I throw this into the thing,” Eloquent. “You could shoot it, and it would blow up, and then it would be frozen. Easy-peasy.” Good  _ god _ , he was talking to an  _ Avenger _ , and he sounded like a  _ two year old.  _ He gave an awkward thumbs-up, grinning behind his mask, and he webbed away hastily before the snicker on Hawkeye’s face had a chance to develop in a full-blown laugh.

 

Peter may have a voice modulator now, he thought with disgust, but he needed to work on his word usage.

 

Back on top of the light post he had used before, just outside of the creature’s reach. It had shifted further down the sidewalk, but it really wasn’t very fast- unless something entered its radius, he supposed. Which was exactly what he was going to take advantage of.

 

“Pull!” Peter shouted, tossing the fire extinguisher into the air above the creature, and, predictable, it reached up to snatch it out of the air, and he watched as the extinguisher was pulled down into the middle of the monster.

 

This didn’t really feel like a battle, Peter mused, glancing back at Hawkeye, where the man had already drawn his bow. It felt more like a puzzle. Kind of an easy one, to be honest. He wasn’t really sure that he’d been needed here at all. All that he’d managed to do was fetch a fire extinguisher and get covered in some kind of enzymatic slime. 

 

Hawkeye was watching him, he realized, so he flashed another thumbs-up and he released. By the time Peter’s head turned to follow the trail of the arrow, the explosion was already taking place.

 

It wasn’t very big, Peter thought with relief, and nothing went flying anywhere. Instead there was a muffled booming sound, a puff of smoke, and the quick, visible freezing of the monster.

 

Cool.

 

“Puzzle solved,” Peter said cheerfully, raising his voice so that the line of police could hear him. “If one of you would be so kind as to call whatever secret organization is going to come by and pick this up, that would honestly just save so much time.” He slid down from the light pole, promptly slipping straight onto his butt. “Oh man,” he groaned, looking at the still sticky sheen on his suit. “How am I going to get home like this?” His skin was starting to itch, too. Was this stuff even safe to introduce to the water in New York? Probably not. He had no idea how he was going to handle this.

 

“Smooth moves, Spider-Man,” Peter recognized Hawkeye’s voice and he looked up to grin ruefully, head tilting to the side.

 

“Yeah, this stuff is pretty slick. Give me a hand up? My gloves are clean, I promise.” He thrust a hand upwards and Hawkeye took it, pulling him somewhat haphazardly to his feet.

 

“You look like you could use to be thrown in a lake,” the older man snorted, watching with apparent interest as Peter stuck himself to the pole again to stay upright. Honestly, he didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t  _ stick _ to things. If he had to take a guess, though, he would probably be even more humiliated than he was now.

 

“As nice as that sounds,” Peter agreed with a grimace. “I should probably...get rid of this suit altogether. But I’m not sure burning it, burying it, or just throwing it away are going to be safe, with whatever’s all over it.” 

 

Hawkeye appeared to be considering that. “Why don’t you come over to Avenger’s tower?” He suggested, thumb jerking in its general direction. “We can stick you under one of those emergency showers in the labs- that’s what they’re for, right? I’ve had to undergo enough lab safety briefings to be pretty sure that that’s the general idea.”

 

Peter brightened. “Yeah,” he agreed, somewhat more cheerfully. Avenger’s tower! That was his second invitation in as many months. And this time, he didn’t really have anywhere else pressing to be. His enthusiasm faded slightly, though, when he realized that the Avengers were going to see him slipping and sliding around the tower like a moron until they got this stuff off of him. “That would be great,” he finished, with a somewhat more rueful cast to his voice. Hawkeye smirked at him.

 

“You need a lift?”

 

“No, I can, um, swing over there myself— _ hey _ !”

 

\---

 

“Clint,” Natasha Romanoff’s voice was dry, with just a hint of amusement, if one knew what to listen for. “What have I told you about bringing home strays? Stark’s not going to be happy.” She was waiting for him on the first floor of the tower, right next to the elevator, so she had a great view of him strolling in with a small, spandex-clad figure tossed casually over his shoulder. As he passed her, entering the elevator, she could see that Spider-Man had both hands pressed over his face, presumably in humiliation.

 

“I don’t know,” Clint answered proudly, waiting for her to step inside. “I think he’ll be pretty happy about this one. You know how he’s been going on and on about the Spiderling, wanting to pick his brain. Lab floor, JARVIS.”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

“Mr. Stark?” Natasha watched as Spider-Man’s hands fell away from his face and he looked up, apparently so distracted that he didn’t even notice the AI speaking. Or maybe he was used to things like that. It wasn’t as if Tony had the only AI in the world, after all, so maybe Spider-Man had hung around some of them before. “He’d been talking about me? Oh my god,” He squirmed in Clint’s grasp. “You can put me down, now, really, I can  _ walk _ ,”

 

“No you can’t,” Clint interrupted, eyes rolling. “And besides, even if you could, we don’t want you getting that slime all over the floors, right? Just think of how  _ Mr. Stark _ ,” he said the name with a snort. “Would react if he found out you’d trailed corrosive goo all over his marble floors.” Natasha raised an eyebrow at Clint and he shrugged with the shoulder that he didn’t have Spider-Man tossed over. “No big deal, Nat, just came across bug boy here standing in the middle of a pile of goop trying to freeze it with a fire extinguisher. You know. The usual.”

 

She didn’t answer, and the elevator came to a halt, doors sliding open. She could hear Tony talking inside, probably to JARVIS, and she noticed that Spider-Man stiffened.

 

“Please put me down,” he begged, trying to slide out of Clint’s grasp. She’d heard of his enhanced strength, of course. She wondered why he wasn’t using it. “I really,  _ really _ don’t want Mr. Stark to see me like this-”

 

“Too late for that, Underoos,” Tony Stark’s voice cut across the floor. “But good work on those squats. Really, I’m impressed.” Spider-Man’s head dropped against Clint’s back and he groaned aloud. “Clint, why did you kidnap Spider-Man and bring him to my tower? Not that I wasn’t about a week from doing it myself, but it seems a little strange, coming from you.”

 

“Need to use your shower,” Clint answered, making for the safety showers on the far side of the room.

 

“You know, there are more private ones upstairs,” Tony offered, one eyebrow raising as he shot a glance at Natasha. “If you two need some time alone.” Spider-Man’s head snapped up at that and he craned his head to look at Tony.

 

“No, no! It’s not like that, honestly,” he sounded flustered. “I just got some goo on me and then I got it on Hawkeye and I think that it’s probably slowly digesting my suit, and his, too, and he just said that your water gets purified really well before it gets back into the water system-”

 

“Sure, sure,” Tony looked interested as he followed them. “What kind of goo?”

 

“I don’t know,” Spider-Man answered as Clint finally set him down directly on the shower floor. “Some kind of living jello, I guess. It was just getting started, by the look of it, but it would probably have eaten the whole city given half a chance.”

 

“Sounds like some kind of NYU graduate project gone wrong,” Tony snorted, coming to stand next to the shower as Clint took the next one. Natasha eyed the line of showers scornfully. It was disturbing that he had felt the need to install  _ five _ of them. How many times had Tony managed to dump chemicals on himself in here?

 

“Probably,” Spider-Man sounded almost giddy. She wondered if that gunk, whatever it was, was getting him high. He sounded almost like he had some kind of hero-worship for Tony. That had to be impossible, of course. Tony was incredibly unlikable.

 

“Alright, you two had better get out of those suits. JARVIS, give them a little privacy, would you, then go ahead and start the showers.”

 

“Right away, sir.”

 

“JARVIS?” Spider-Man repeated as an opaque glass door slid shut around him, followed by the sound of water and Spider-Man’s yelp. “Oh my  _ god, _ that’s cold!”

 

“Hop to it, Spidey,” Tony snapped. “Pass that suit out here and I’ll get it clean for you. You too, Barton,” he said, and Natasha grimaced when Clint’s wet suit slapped over the top of the stall. There was considerably more hesitation from Spider-Man’s stall. 

 

“Do you, uh, have any towels or anything?”

 

“What, you think I’m not prepared for this? Of course I have towels. Just give me the suit.”

 

“Don’t snoop,” Spider-Man said sternly, and Natasha raised an eyebrow at Tony.

 

“Snoop how?” Tony asked innocently after a few moments.

 

“Don’t try to...I don’t know, take DNA samples, or...dig through pockets or check for prints or anything. Don’t try to figure out my identity.”

 

“Mistrustful, aren’t you, Spider-Man?” Natasha prompted him, watching the stall and listening to Clint laughing quietly from the other one.

 

“Are you saying that you wouldn’t if I didn’t say anything?” Spider-Man retorted, and Natasha paused.

 

“I’ll keep him in line,” she told him, wondering whether or not she would keep that promise. “Pass us the suit. What are your measurements? We’ll get you some new clothes brought up.” Another few beats of silence.

 

“I’d rather not say,” he said, almost a mumble over the sound of the water. Natasha’s eyes rolled heartily and she crossed her arms.

 

“Fine,” she said, trying not to grit her teeth with annoyance. Although she hadn’t trusted Spider-Man overmuch to begin with, her suspicion was growing with every withheld detail. “We’ll figure something out.” She still wanted him to trust them enough to let his guard down, after all. She shot Tony an exasperated look, then decided to ignore his smirking. She didn’t want to know what was going on in that head of his.

 

Her attention turned back to the stall as the suit came over the side: first the bottom, then the top, followed by gloves and boots. They waited as Clint’s shower turned off, Tony tugging gloves up to his elbows as he passed Clint a towel and started collecting the pieces of suit.

 

“The mask?” Natasha prompted as JARVIS announced that no more contaminants were detected on Clint Barton.

 

“It didn’t get dirty,” Spider-Man answered, voice tight. He had to be kidding. Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose.

 

“JARVIS, have some of my clothes sent up for Spider-Man, and some of Clint’s for himself.”

 

“ _ Your _ clothes?” Came Spider-Man’s dismayed voice.

 

“You’re probably closer to my size than anyone else,” she deadpanned back at him through the glass. “Does that bother you?” Another pregnant pause, then finally a reluctant,

 

“No.”

 

“Good.” It was strange, she thought, how much Spider-Man grated on her nerves. She shouldn’t be phased by this: she’d been in plenty of covert operations before where she knew little to nothing about the others around her. She often couldn’t even begin to guess, this early, who was going to be a friend and who would be an enemy.

 

As JARVIS proclaimed the second stall clean and the water shut off, she mutely passed a towel over the wall, considering. Maybe, she thought, that was exactly the problem. She knew that no one could be trusted. The rest of the team, though…

 

Clint had brought Spider-Man here without a second thought. Tony had practically welcomed him with open arms. She was sure that Dr. Banner would be shy, but he certainly wouldn’t attempt to warn the team to caution. Steve would be wary, perhaps, but not guarded the way he should be. Thor...that man had no trace of subtlety. His own brother- but maybe that was something of a low blow.

 

Suffice it to say that the man couldn’t sense duplicity if it killed eighty people in three days.

 

“Alright, Spidey,” Tony wandered over to what must have been some kind of absurdly high tech washing machine near the showers. She stared, stunned.  _ How many times? _ “Don’t think that I didn’t notice you keeping those nifty web shooters all to yourself. As long as we’re waiting, you might as well tell me what’s going on with those.

 

“What do you mean, what’s going on with them?”

 

“We talked a little bit about them before, but not nearly enough. Tell me more about the chemical compound you use for your webs.”

 

“Sorry Mr. Stark, that’s private. Trademark.”

 

“You have a trademark on it?” Tony jumped all over that, and Natasha perked up with interest.

 

“No, not really. But I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t try to commercialize it anyway?” It sounded more like a question than a statement. He seemed very unsure of himself. That was to be expected. Whether or not he was on the level, he was in the presence of several very high profile heroes.

 

Tony hummed noncommittally, tossing his gloves in after the suits and activating a screen, punching in commands. “So you’re a gadget guy, too, huh? What other cool inventions you got rattling around under that suit?”

 

“Oh- not really much.” He sounded almost  _ shy _ now. Maybe she hadn’t been so off the mark about that hero worship idea after all. 

 

“Gloves and boots?” Tony prompted. “They help you stick to walls, right?”

 

“That’s actually, um, not true,” Spider-Man answered, and Natasha wished that she could see him so she could watch his body language. “I stick to things on my own. It’s my superpower, I guess?”

 

Tony was laughing when he responded. “Your power is stickiness? And you decided to go with  _ Spider-Man _ ? How about Glue Trap? Or Peanut Butter-Boy,” he was snickering and Natasha heard Spider-Man huff indignantly. She realized that she hadn’t heard Clint saying anything in a while. She would have to get his take on all this later.

 

“Among other things,” Spider-Man eventually answered, sounding put-out.

 

“Like what?” Tony encouraged him, wandering back over to lean against the glass. Another long hesitation.

 

“Normal stuff. Normal for superpowers, I mean. Do we have to talk about this?” Luckily for him, the line of questioning was interrupted as the door opened and one of Tony’s employees bustled in, clothing bundled in her arms. She was in and out in no time, barely leaving time for a thank you.

 

“Alright, here you go, Spidey,” Tony tossed Natasha’s bundled clothes over the shower wall and Natasha didn’t hear them hit the floor. “Barton.” There was a groan: he hadn’t been so quick.

 

Quiet fell, broken only by the sound of cloth rustling behind each curtain. Clint emerged first, a frown on his face and a wet spot on his shirt. Natasha strolled over, voice low.

 

“What do you think?”

 

“About what? I had my hearing aids out for the water,” Natasha grimaced, giving him an elbow to the ribs for his trouble.

 

“You’re useless,” she huffed, turning back to watch as Spider-Man stepped out of the shower. Her sweatpants seemed to fit reasonably well, she thought with some minor amusement, and the hoodie that was most definitely  _ not _ hers looked very strange next to the mask that was still tucked down around his neck. She could see his bare feet and hands, though: pale, partially freckled skin. That was more information than SHIELD had been able to gather about him so far, she thought, shaking her head slightly. She made a note to add it to his file, as well as a closer estimate of his height and weight. Maybe this would help, in the long run, as the organization struggled to identify him.

 

She could, of course, step forward and rip off his mask right now.

 

His head whipped around towards her and he took a step away so quickly that she suddenly wondered if telepathy was amongst his powers. She hastily revised her plan: after all, she wasn’t trying to make an enemy of Spider-Man. She just needed to determine whether or not he was one, and gaining his animosity through such a move might tilt him farther than they wanted him to go away from the organization.

 

She saw him relax and her suspicions only grew.

 

“Alright,” Clint said abruptly, and her eyes flicked towards him. “I’m going upstairs: only been around Tony for about three minutes, but that’s more than enough. See you later, Spider-Man,” He gave him a salute, and Spider-Man perked up, his attention shifting to the archer as well.

 

“Yeah, definitely, see you around,” he agreed quickly. “Thanks for the help.” Clint nodded, tossing a wave over his shoulder as he disappeared into the elevator.

 

“Web shooters,” Tony demanded again, one hand held out. “Let me see.” Spider-Man startled. She hesitantly outruled telepathy as a power.

 

“Mr. Stark, I’d really rather-”

 

“Come on, Spidey, what’s the worst I could do, break it?” Tony scoffed. “I bet I could fix it. I won’t even go poking around with the formula, if it bothers you that much. I just want to see how it works for myself.” There was another long hesitation: the vigilante definitely seemed nervous, here. Eventually, though, he held up one wrist and unclipped one of those famous web shooters.

 

Tony took it, looking delighted, and strode straight to his workbench. Spider-Man followed.

 

“You mind if I open it up?” He asked, fetching a screwdriver. Spider-Man shook his head, but the gesture was wasted. Tony was already working on the screws.

 

Natasha settled in. She wouldn’t usually want to stick around to listen to him go off about science, especially since he seemed to have found someone with a shared enthusiasm, but she wasn’t willing to leave Spider-Man alone with Tony. Just in case.

 

Tony and Spider-Man both leaned close over the thing, chattering.

 

“Oh, look at this,” Tony crowed. “It’s so clever. What is this? Not ceramic-” 

 

Spider-Man cut him off, gaining confidence quickly as they talked about his invention. “No, the fluid’s too sticky: it’s polytetrafluoroethylene. It’s used-”

 

“ _ Teflon _ ? That’s cheeky, kid. What made you try-”

 

“Well, it’s the only thing that works, see, look-”

 

“Oh, yeah, I see, it would just jam up  _ here _ , right?”

 

“Right, right, and this here keeps it from solidifying, mostly,”

 

“What is  _ this _ ?”

 

“Oh, well, actually, I have multiple things I can do with the web,” He sounded proud.

 

“Really? I’ve only ever seen the strands you leave hanging around,”

 

“No, no, see, look, if it’s like  _ this _ , then it’s the strand, but if I flick this bit here, it changes-”

 

“Yes, I see,” Tony sounded almost breathless. “What are they?”

 

“This one is just, like, this goo,” Spider-Man was getting excited. “Very thick, very...you know, sticky. Moreso than the other ones, because it’s less solid, more liquid, kind of.”

 

“And this one?” 

 

“That one’s for complex web patterns: it helps when I want to make things like a net, or a web, or things like that.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Oh- see this piece here? It creates more like a spray, so if you know what you’re doing-”

 

“What about this one?”

 

“That one’s kind of like- rapid fire? Like bullets, I guess. Not that they’d puncture or anything, but it can come in handy.”

 

Natasha forced herself to listen, but she learned very little from their conversation after that point. It was mostly technical jargon, leaving behind the words she understood.

 

It was only hours later, when Spider-Man had reluctantly announced he had to leave, did they reassemble the web shooter and its twin, which they’d taken apart as they attempted to upgrade them without a major overhaul. Natasha suspected that Tony was going to build completely new web shooters for him, despite the upgrades they’d installed.

 

“Thanks for letting me hang around, Mr. Stark, this has been really great, getting your opinions and your help on all this,” Spider-Man was still jabbering, having loosened up several hours ago when they’d first been lost to their tech talk. He clasped his web shooters back on as Tony went to get his suit from the machine it had been sitting idle in for a number of hours.

 

Natasha shifted, abruptly drawing Spider-Man’s attention, and she realized that he’d forgotten she was in the room. That was fine. It was preferable, honestly. She watched as his shoulders tensed as he apparently lifted his guard up.

 

“Oh- Miss Widow, thanks for um, the loan?” Miss Widow, Natasha repeated in her head. That would have been somewhat charming, if she weren’t above being charmed. She watched silently as he plucked at the clothes he was wearing. “I’ll...wash these, I guess, and then get them back to you. I could mail them?”

 

“Don’t bother,” Tony interrupted him again. It was clear that he was very comfortable around the spider-themed vigilante, by now. “Just swing by and drop them off yourself, save on postage. Then maybe you and I can talk more about your suit.”

 

“My suit?”

 

“Not tonight, Spider-Man,” Natasha spoke again, despite the clear look of temptation on Tony’s face. “We’ve got a meeting, and you’ve got...whatever’s going on in your life.

 

“Hey, but first, let’s get you acquainted with JARVIS. JARVIS, buddy, make a new profile.”

 

“Yes, sir. Name?” Tony looked at the young vigilante, who crossed his arms.

 

“I’ve been hearing that name a lot,” he said. “Who is JARVIS?”

 

“Just A Rather Very Intelligent System,” Tony answered. “My AI for the building.” Natasha was confident that he’d come up with that acronym after he’d named his robot butler Jarvis.

 

“Why does he need to know who I am?” Spider-Man asked, that amazement coming back into his tone. So he probably wasn’t familiar with AI: he had just been too preoccupied to notice, he supposed.

 

“So he can let you in.” Natasha thought that that was a remarkably irresponsible decision, but she kept her thoughts to herself, for the moment.

 

“ _ Oh. _ ”

 

“Name for the profile, sir?” JARVIS repeated.

 

“Your full name,” Tony prompted, and suddenly that hardness was back, pushing out the vigilante’s cheeriness.

 

“Spider-Man.” Tony looked disappointed, but Natasha couldn’t imagine that someone like this vigilante would give up his real name so quickly.

 

“Clearance level?” JARVIS asked, then.

 

“Custom. We’ll talk about it later.”

 

“Would sir like to input photo identification?”

 

“Just take the best shot from the security feed,” Tony recommended, waving a hand dismissively.

 

“Security feed?” Spider-Man sounded scandalized.

 

“Yeah, bucko, did you think I was going to leave this place unmonitored? Don’t worry, your virtue is intact, there aren’t any cameras in the showers.”

 

“That’s not what I was worried about,” he mumbled, sounding like he was worried about that  _ now _ .

 

“Should I print an identification card for Mr. Spider-Man?” JARVIS asked politely, but Tony shook his head.

 

“Not tonight. Just compare voice files, for now, to make sure it’s the same guy. We might get you a card later,” Tony said to Spider-Man. “But if you need to get somewhere, just ask JARVIS for help. He’ll make sure you get around where you need to get alright.”

 

“That’s amazing. Thanks, Mr. Stark. Seriously.”

 

“Jesus, quit calling me that. You’re making me feel like I’m at a business deal and I hate it. Just use Tony, from now on.”

 

“Mr. Stark-”

 

“I  _ mean _ it, kid. Tony.”

 

“Um. Sure. Okay.”

 

“And what can I call you?” Tony asked pointedly, both eyebrows lifting as he crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“Spider-Man. Nice try, Mr. Stark.” Tony threw his hands up in the air and Natasha blinked in surprise as Spider-Man laughed, throwing his head back. “Sorry, sorry! I wasn’t even thinking. I’ll work on that, really, I will. But seriously Mr. Stark-” Tony grunted and Spider-Man chortled again. “ _ Tony _ , I should really get going. I appreciate all the help and… I’ll see you again soon?” 

 

He backed away from the table to the elevators, hands forming finger pistols.  _ Really? _ “You, too, Ms. Widow. It was really great seeing you guys.”

 

“See you soon, Spider-Kid,” Tony agreed, settling down to watch him go. Natasha didn’t speak.

 

“Spider-Man,” he corrected indignantly before the elevator doors shut.

 

\--

 

“Hey, Peter.” Gwen was already sitting at a table in the library and as he approached, she gave him a smile that made his heart do a weird shivery thing.

 

“Hi, Gwen,” He slid into the seat across from her, smiling back. “How, um, how was your day?”

 

“It was good, yeah,” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Had a calculus test today, but I think I did alright. No internship tonight, so that’s a...mixed blessing, I guess. How was yours?”

 

“No, yeah, it was good,” He pulled his backpack up onto the table and started tugging his books out, careful of the pocket where his spidey suit lay hidden. “Got to do a lab today in chemistry, so that’s always fun,” He thought of his freshly restocked web fluid supply and internally cheered. It had been so long since their last interaction with chemicals that Peter had been worried about running out. He’d made extra, this time.

 

“Well, do you have any Spanish homework you need help with?” Gwen prompted, and Peter nodded.

 

“I have an essay due tomorrow, so I was hoping that you could check over it for me and make sure that I didn’t screw anything up particularly badly,” He grinned as that made her laugh, although she quickly stifled the sound, glancing towards the librarian’s desk. She flashed him her grin.

 

“Sure, Peter,” she agreed. “I’m sure you didn’t, but I’d be happy to give it a read for you. What’s it about?”

 

“The Glorious Revolution,” he answered, opening up his laptop in order to pull it up for her. “Honestly it’s pretty uninspired and I know that, I just…” He cleared his throat, then swiveled his computer towards her. “I got busy last night and didn’t have as much time to write it as I thought I would, and I’ve got some stuff going on tonight, too, so I don’t have too much revisionary time, so really I’m just looking for language notes, you know?”

 

“No problem,” Gwen pulled the computer towards herself, eyes already beginning to skim the document. She fell silent, then, and he pulled out his chemistry homework, electing to begin on that, next. He kept glancing up at her, though, watching her gaze as she read. She must have felt his attention because the next time he looked at her, she met his eyes. Her lips twitched up into a smile. “Mr. Parker, I’m going to need you to keep your eyes on your own paper,” she teased, and his face flushed as he grinned back at her. “Don’t worry. I’m not judging you via your Spanish essay.”

 

“Right, no, I wasn’t thinking that,” Peter agreed quickly. “I just, uh, it’s cool that we’re doing this,” he used his pencil to gesture between the two of them. “Studying together. This is cool.” That made her laugh again and his ears burned with the pleasure.

 

“If this is your definition of  _ cool _ , Peter,” her eyes stayed on him. “Then we’re going to need to get you properly socialized.” His heart jumped in his chest. “I’m just kidding, though,” she relented. “This is cool. I don’t know why we haven’t hung out sooner.” Peter was over the moon. Good god.

 

“Exactly,” Peter’s eyes bashfully fell back to his chemistry, but he was still smiling. “I’m glad you feel the same way.” She hummed, sounding happy, and her attention went back to his paper. He wondered if, or maybe hoped that, he was making a friend.

 

A short while later, Peter looked up to find Gwen turning the computer towards him again. “I made a few notes,” she told him. “But overall, you did pretty well. Your biggest problem are that you mix up  _ ser _ and  _ estar _ a lot, and you don’t seem to have too steady a grasp on the preterite tense. It doesn’t seem like enough of a problem to warrant a C, but there you have it.”

 

Peter’s eyes skimmed the page and he cringed self consciously, seeing all the notes she had left in the margins of his Google Doc. That was pretty embarrassing. At least she was being cool about it. “Thanks, Gwen. This is such a huge help, you have no idea.”

 

“Actually, I kind of think I do have an idea,” she snickered, pulling her own books back in front of her as Peter’s face flushed. He carded his fingers through his hair, a grin on his face. He found that he liked Gwen’s teasing. It obviously came from a place of affection.

 

Oh, man.

 

The silence returned as they both turned to their own work, but Peter found that he was having a hard time concentrating. He got frustratingly little work done: instead, he found himself focusing on Gwen. He noticed the way she would pick at the eraser on her pencil when she was stuck on something. Sometimes she would slide her thumb idly against the pages of a textbook, causing the paper to ruffle upwards. Peter found himself staring when she did, caught up in his thoughts.

 

He didn’t miss that she was watching him, too.

 

At five o’clock, Gwen’s phone went off and they both startled. 

 

“Oh,” she said, fumbling to turn off what must have been an alarm. “I can’t believe it’s that late already.” She looked down at her books and pressed a hand to her forehead, a rueful grin on her face. “I…got next to nothing done.”

 

Peter closed his books, shaking his head. “Me either, honestly. I can’t believe I was so distracted.” Now he was going to have to do all this later, after patrol.

 

“Maybe we should try again, later in the week,” Gwen suggested, and he noticed that her cheeks were pink.

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, beaming. “And, um, maybe we ought to, you know, burn off that social energy first. We could, uh,” He was getting nervous, but aside from running his fingers through his hair again, he didn’t back down. “We could get dinner or something. Or, um, see a movie?” Gwen looked surprised, then suddenly delighted and his stomach did a flip.

 

“Peter Parker,” she said, apparently unable to keep the grin off of her face. “Are you asking me out?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, feeling breathless as his stomach did a flip. “Yeah, I am. Asking you out. On… Thursday? Or Friday. Or, um Saturday. Whenever. Whenever you want.” He leaned forward against the table and watched her as she laced her fingers together.

 

“Perfect,” she agreed. “Thursday, or Friday, or Saturday, or whenever.” She was teasing him again, he noticed happily. “It’s a date.” Peter’s breath huffed out of him.

 

“Perfect,” he repeated, then looked away, jamming his books and computer back into his backpack. “So..I’ll text you? We can...hash out the details.” Gwen snickered at him and he realized how stupid that sounded. “You know what I mean.”

 

“I know what you mean, Peter,” she agreed, packing up her things as well.

 

“Can I walk you home?” Gwen looked up at him, apparently surprised, and then she smiled.

 

“That sounds great.”

 

\--

 

Peter returned to the tower four days later. He felt a little silly as he practically flounced through the front doors, ignoring the startled look of the secretaries, but things had really taken an upturn since the event he’d affectionately nicknamed ‘Goopocalypse 2017’ in his head. He’d hung out with the Avengers- or, at least, a few of them- and then  _ Gwen _ . She was...incredible, honestly. The more time he spent with her, the more time he wanted to.

 

But now wasn’t the time to think about that, he thought firmly, clutching a plastic grocery bag in his hands as he headed for the elevator. It slid open without prompting and Peter slid inside, relieved that it wasn’t literal, this time.

 

“Please state your name for identification purposes,” a voice Peter recognized as JARVIS said, the door continuing to stand open.

 

“Oh, right! Spider-Man. I’m Spider-Man.”

 

“Of course, sir.” The doors slid shut. “Mr. Stark is in his lab this afternoon. Would you care to join him there?”

 

“Absolutely,” Peter agreed without hesitation. “That sounds great.” The doors slid shut and Peter felt the elevator begin to rise. “Hey, JARVIS?” Peter said, feeling a little weird talking to the air. He was mollified, though, when the air answered back.

 

“Yes, Mr. Spider-Man?”

 

“Is, uh, is there anyone else there with him?”

 

“Ms. Romanoff has just joined Mr. Stark.”

 

“Ms. Romanoff?” Peter wondered aloud. A business partner? An employee?

 

“The Black Widow.”

 

“ _ Oh _ . Her. Cool.” Peter would be lying, probably very unconvincingly, if he tried to say that the Black Widow didn’t intimidate him. She was probably used to that, he thought, it was probably even a part of her whole  _ deal _ , but he didn’t particularly want to admit it. Especially in her vicinity. “Did you...tell her I was here?”

 

“Ms. Romanoff has asked me to inform her of your presence in the tower for the foreseeable future,” JARVIS confirmed.

 

“Great.” Peter’s shoulders slumped, but then the elevator doors opened and he smelled that combination of oil, electricity, and metal that immediately sent him right back to the last time he’d been here. That had been  _ awesome. _ He brightened up again and left the elevator, looking around.

 

“Spidey! Hey, kid.” Mr. Stark straightened up over at his workbench, and wiggled a screwdriver. “Great timing, honestly. I want to get your thoughts on something.” Peter beamed behind his mask, suddenly overwhelmed with pride. Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, owner of his own tech company, wanted fifteen-year-old Peter Parker’s input on a project? Of course, he wouldn’t feel that way, probably, if he  _ knew _ he was asking a teenager.

 

“Sure, definitely,” Peter started towards him, but then he spotted the Black Widow- Ms. Romanoff?- sitting near the elevator and he paused, remembering the bag in his hand. “Oh,” He turned towards her and stopped a short distance away. “I have, um, your clothes. They’re clean.” He still felt a little weird about having worn her clothes, but honestly, it probably wasn’t the  _ weirdest _ thing he’d had to do after a battle to get home okay.

 

There was a long pause as she lifted an eyebrow at him, but then she reached out and he slid the grocery bag into her hands. “Thanks,” she said dryly, and Peter had the impression that he’d done something wrong. He smiled hesitantly, rocking on his heels a little as he watched her before Mr. Stark’s voice called his attention again.

 

“Come  _ on _ , bug-boy,” Why did people keep calling him that? “We’ve got work to do. If you’re done being intimidated by women, which, okay, most of us aren’t, I need your opinion on this. Well, it’s not that I need it, but I figure it would be nice to get, seeing as you won’t tell me the formula for that webbing of yours. You know, it’s only a matter of time before I get my hands on some of your leftovers before it dissolves and then all I’ve got to do is get it back to the tower and I’ll be able to analyze it all I want. At least, you know, for two hours. So you might as well just tell me now.”

 

“Nice try, Mr. Stark, but it undergoes a chemical change on contact with air. Even if you manage to get the composition of the webs, you still won’t have the fluid,” Peter argued, turning to go over to him. He let the presence of the Black Widow settle into the back of his mind.

 

“I bet I could reverse engineer it,” Mr. Stark scoffed, arms crossing, and Peter just shrugged. 

 

“Maybe so. I hope that you don’t, though. Really, Mr. Stark, I would be so grateful if you didn’t try to do that.” The man scoffed and waved his hand dismissively. Peter wasn’t sure whether that was agreement or disagreement.

 

“Anyway: I noticed that your trigger is...ridiculous, honestly, last time you were over here. What is that, seventy pounds of pressure to get it to fire?”

 

“Sixty-five, actually,” Peter answered defensively, but then he got cut off.

 

“So I guess we can count superhuman strength as one of the other miscellaneous powers, huh?” He held his hand out, fingers twitching expectantly, and Peter reluctantly forked over one of his web shooters. “You do this with just two fingers? Geeze,” He used one hand to brace and depressed with the other, trying to push it down enough to force the web fluid out. “Damn, I can’t- mmm.”

 

“You’ve got to double tap it,” Peter advised him, and Mr. Stark shot him a disbelieving glance. 

 

“Seriously? Kid, you’ve got to be some kind of masochist.” 

 

“Nah, no, I just, didn’t want to accidentally trigger it, you know? Like if I was punching someone,” He squeezed his hand shut, demonstrating that despite the pressure, it wouldn’t go off. “And I mean, if it keeps someone from using it against me easily, then that’s an added benefit, right?”

 

There was a sudden clanging sound from above and Peter jumped out of the way as a vent cover fell from the ceiling.

 

“Barton!” Mr. Stark’s voice rose sharply. “How many times am I going to have to tell you to stay out of the vents?” Peter looked up to find Hawkeye dropping out of a hole in the ceiling. Holy crap, had he seriously be in there?

 

The man landed in a crouch and quickly straightened, going over to Mr. Stark. “I want to try,” he said abruptly. There was a moment’s pause.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me,” Hawkeye’s eyebrows rose and he jerked his thumb towards the web shooter Iron Man was currently holding. “Can I try it, or what? Shooting is kind of my  _ thing _ , and I want to shoot  _ that _ .” 

 

“Um- I mean, yeah, go for it.  How long have you been up there, exactly?” Hawkeye ignored him, taking the web shooter from Mr. Stark.

 

“So double tap, sixty-five pounds of pressure, right?”

 

“I repeat, how long have you been up there?” Hawkeye was spying on them? Was that what this was? The man didn’t answer, despite his vehemence, instead concentrating on fastening the shooter to his wrist. 

 

“You use your middle two fingers, right?” He pressed his hand into a position resembling Peter’s, and Peter gave up on the question, strolling over to him to watch.

 

He was aiming at the wall, pressing down hard, but he couldn’t manage the double click. Peter was surprised that he was managing to get it down once at all, but then he reconsidered. The man was an archer. Maybe this kind of exercise wasn’t outside his normal range of movement. After a few moments he used the thumb of his other hand to get the additional force he needed in order to tap twice in a row, and a web sprang out across the room. Clint hooted with excitement, but his hand immediately tipped down and the spray managed to knock several pieces of equipment to the floor. Peter’s head whipped around towards Tony, but the man didn’t even seem to notice. 

 

“Do it again,” he demanded, pointing at a poster. “Aim there. You can do better than that. Barton. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of crack shot?”

 

“I thought there would be more recoil,” Hawkeye glanced at Peter, who shrugged.

 

“No,” Peter agreed. “Not really. I mean, sure, there are some forces at work, but it’s more like shooting a water gun than a pistol, I imagine.” Hawkeye snorted, glancing at the broken glass scattered over the floor.

 

“Hell of a water gun,” he said dryly, turning his attention forward again. “Take two. No recoil.” He paused, aiming the web shooter a second time. This time, when the web leapt across the room, it neatly sprayed over the center of a  _ 1942 Stark Expo _ poster. “Oh, man, that’s cool.”

 

“Check this out,” Peter volunteered, reaching across to flick the web shooter to a different setting. Clint obligingly hit the trigger again, and this time the web formed a rope: the kind Peter used to swing with.

 

“Oh,  _ hell _ yes,” Clint breathed, pulling hard. The poster ripped off the wall and Clint rapidly tugged his hand back to avoid getting caught on the falling web.

 

“You cut it with this,” Peter reached over to run the blade at the tip of the web shooter against the strand, slicing it easily. “So you aren’t stuck to it.” Clint examined it, nodding, and tried again, this time disconnecting smoothly.

 

“Okay,” he said firmly. “Let’s go.” He turned and strode for the elevator, startling Peter and, apparently, Mr. Stark.

 

“Where are you going?” Iron Man demanded, following him, Peter close on his heels. He noticed the Black Widow following the three of them into the elevator.

 

“Roof, please, JARVIS. I’m going to swing on it.” Suddenly all three of the others were shouting.

 

“No way, absolutely not, you’ll hurt yourself, I can’t let you,” Peter was protesting.

 

“ _ Excuse me _ ? You’re going to  _ what _ ?” That was Ms. Romanoff.

 

“JARVIS, hold the elevator. Barton, what the hell are you thinking?”

 

Clint held up his hands and Peter took the opportunity to snatch the web shooter off his wrist. He hadn’t fastened it correctly, so it was easy, but he got the impression that Hawkeye could have stopped him if he’d wanted to.

 

“Calm down. If Spider-Man can do it, I bet I can, too.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter demanded, suddenly feeling kind of attacked. That was just...so rude.

 

“Look at you,” Clint snorted, giving him a light punch on the shoulder. “Look at your scrawny little arms. Now look at mine. If you can hold onto these suckers, then I can, too.”

 

“I’m stronger than I look,” Peter answered stubbornly, and he realized suddenly that the Black Widow was watching him again. Umm.

 

“Tell you what,” Hawkeye broke him from his thoughts. “I’ll arm wrestle you for it. If I win, I get to swing on your webs. If you win...I won’t. Unless you change your mind.”

 

“That is a fantastic idea,” Mr. Stark seemed like he liked the idea of watching the two of them arm wrestling.

 

“Clint,” Mr. Romanoff began, but Peter stuck his hand out to shake.

 

“Deal.” This was  _ weird _ , but he had no doubts that he would be able to beat Hawkeye. After all: he was augmented. He was definitely,  _ definitely  _ stronger than he looked.

 

“Common room, JARVIS,” Tony said.

 

“Right away, sir,” the AI agreed, and the elevator was moving again. The Black Widow’s lips were tight, but she didn’t complain. Peter wondered if she knew about his strength. Probably. Mr. Stark had commented on it, but neither of them really knew the extent of it.

 

The door opened onto a new room and Peter scrambled to take it all in. There was an outrageously extravagant living room with a couch clearly intended to be able to sit most of the Avengers. Several armchairs completed the set in a semicircle facing a television screen that almost made Peter feel sick just wondering what it might cost, and the decorations-

 

There was more money put into this room than Peter would earn in his entire life, he was suddenly sure.

 

But the three Avengers trooped through a door to the right, leading him into an equally overzealously decorated kitchen. There was a large breakfast table, and Peter nearly had a heart attack. Was this where the Avengers ate breakfast? He was standing in the Avenger’s kitchen. How had this become his life? 

 

“Come on, kid,” Hawkeye was sitting down at one corner of the table, pulling another chair closer so that Peter could sit across from him. “Let’s do it.”

 

Peter followed obediently, wondering if Captain America had sat in this chair before. He propped his arm up on the table, feeling somewhat uncertain- he’d never arm wrestled before, and he wasn’t sure of the proper form, or whatever. He assumed that the super spies knew about a correct arm wrestling form.

 

If the smirk on Hawkeye’s face was anything to judge by as he reached out to grasp Peter’s hand, he was right. Peter grimaced behind his mask.

 

“Ready?” The archer asked, and Peter nodded once. “Go.” He felt the pressure begin immediately, taking him off guard, and his hand dipped a little before Peter pushed back and slammed Hawkeye’s arm down against the table. There was a moment of deafening silence before suddenly Mr. Stark was howling with laughter, hands over his belly. Hawkeye was staring at him with surprise and disbelief.

 

“Oh my  _ god _ , Barton, you never stood a chance!” Mr. Stark was whooping. Peter glanced over and saw that the Black Widow didn’t look particularly amused. He looked away quickly.

 

“Rematch,” Hawkeye demanded, pulling his hand away from Peter and setting it up again. “I wasn’t ready.”

 

“Sure,” Peter agreed amiably, taking his hand again.

 

“Go,” Hawkeye said firmly, with significantly less patience, this time. He pushed, harder, this time, and Peter let him for a few moments. It wasn’t as if it were easy, holding himself there, but...it sure wasn’t difficult. At all.

 

“Look, Clint,  _ look _ ,” Mr. Start was still chortling, wiping tears from his eyes. “He’s  _ toying _ with you.” Peter watched as Hawkeye’s jaw clenched, and Peter decided that it would be wise to finish up. He pushed Hawkeye’s arm down, maybe a little more slowly than was strictly necessary. What could he say? It wasn’t often he got to beat an Avenger at arm wrestling.

 

As his knuckles rapped against the table, Clint jumped up, clearly frustrated. “If it’s so easy, you beat him, tough guy,” he challenged.

 

“Why does this feel like Thor’s hammer all over again?” Mr. Stark muttered, but he took Clint’s place. “Hey, calm down, kid,” he added, and Peter realized he was stammering helplessly. He shut up quickly. “I’m not going to hurt you. And you’re not going to hurt me, I hope.”

 

“No, of course not,” Peter agreed quickly, reluctantly taking Mr. Stark’s hand as they each prepared to start.

 

“Go,” Clint said, watching them with arms crossed, and Mr. Stark twisted their wrists, trying to gain the upper hand- literally. He was trying to win with physics. That would be fine, Peter thought, if he were a guy with normal strength. That would definitely put the mechanic at an advantage. In this case, however, it was too little, too late.

 

Peter put him down.

 

Mr. Stark groaned. “That’s just shameful. I must be getting old, for a pup like this to put me in my place.

 

“I’m not a pup,” Peter protested, pulling his hand away. “I’m a grown man.” That was a lie, but whatever.

 

“Well, looks like neither of you are going swinging,” Ms. Romanoff said from behind him, and Peter flinched, but as the two men opened their mouths to argue, someone interrupted. 

 

“What’s going on in here?” Peter looked toward the door and found Bruce Banner standing in the door. Peter’s eyes widened and he took in every detail he could manage- the man was brilliant, after all, practically a celebrity amongst the intellectual circles, despite his well known standoffishness. He looked… tired, if Peter was honest with himself. Eyes somewhat drooping, skin ashen, hair a curly mess. But, then again, that was kind of what Peter looked like after indulging in a science binge for too long, too, so it wasn’t like he had any kind of leg to stand on.

 

“Bruce!” Mr. Stark looked elated. “Perfect timing! We’re arm wrestling Spider-Man. I need you to Hulk out and beat him for us.”

 

“No!” The cry came from all four of the other occupants at once, but Mr. Stark looked unaffected. Peter honestly couldn’t believe that he had just suggested that. “Absolutely not,” Dr. Banner continued, more flatly. “That’s not funny, Tony, and it never will be.” He wandered into the kitchen anyway, gaze turning to Peter. “So you’re Spider-Man? It’s nice to meet you. Bruce Banner.” He stuck his hand out to shake, looking somewhat reluctant, but Peter leapt to his feet anyway, exuberance shining through.

 

“Dr. Banner! Of course, yeah, I know who you are. I’m a big fan, honestly. Your work is- is  _ revolutionary _ , you’re really incredible, I’m really excited to get to meet you.”

 

“Yeah,” Dr. Banner smiled ruefully. “The Hulk was...pretty revolutionary, alright.”

 

“No, no,” Peter frowned behind his mask. “I mean, not that that’s not true, but I really mean your research into biochemistry. You’re actually a huge inspiration for me. You’re the reason I decided to look into all that myself. It’s actually a huge interest of mine, now.”

 

“The web fluid,” Peter heard Mr. Stark hiss, but he was busy watching the way Dr. Banner’s expression open up.

 

“Really? Oh- I’m. Thank you. I appreciate that.” He looked pleased, now, and Peter realized that some of the wariness he’d been holding in his shoulders was relaxing. Peter thought he heard a huff coming from the Black Widow’s direction, but when he glanced at her, her face was completely neutral. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you...the same way as myself? A product of your own research?”

 

Peter grimaced wryly, forcing himself not to look at Mr. Stark. “No, not really. Completely different circumstances. Man, if I had done this to myself, it would have been much easier to figure out what was going on those first couple of days.” He could feel himself loosening up a little, too, despite being in the presence of two of his personal childhood heroes and a total of four Avengers.

 

Dr. Banner actually chuckled at that, if somewhat unhappily, and nodded. “Of course.” He let it go and Peter relaxed again, grateful that the man wasn’t going to push him on this. “So...arm wrestling?” he prompted, gesturing to where Mr. Stark was still sitting in the chair.

 

“Yeah,” Peter’s hand touched his head before he realized that his mask kept him from running his fingers through his hair and instead he just smoothed over the top of the mask. “Yeah, um, Hawkeye wanted to go swinging with my web shooters but nobody wanted to let him. I told him he could borrow one if he beat me at arm wrestling because...you know. It would prove he was stronger, I guess?”

 

“Did you call me Hawkeye?” The other man snorted suddenly, one hand tugging at his ear as if he wasn’t hearing properly. Hearing aids, Peter remembered him saying. “Did I get that right? You’re calling me that? Kid, that’s  _ lame _ . I go by Clint, around the tower.”

 

“Oh- um. Yeah, okay.” Peter looked at him, wondering if he should tack a ‘Mr’ on there with it. Somehow it didn’t feel right. Mr. Clint? Maybe Mr. Barton. No, that just sounded like someone who should be teaching homeroom. Besides, the guy was kind of...nutty. The formality would just seem weird. “Clint. Got it.”

 

“Oh, so you’ll call him Clint, but you won’t call me Tony?” Mr. Stark demanded suddenly and Peter looked at him again. “That’s right, skippy, don’t think that I didn’t notice you switched back to last-name-basis. What is this? You trying to keep me at arm’s length? ‘Cause I’ve got news for you, that isn’t going to work out for you.”

 

“It isn’t,” Dr. Banner chimed in dryly from behind. “I had to give up on going into hiding because Tony just kept showing up.” That sent a chill through Peter’s bones. If he could track a man  _ in hiding _ , what would it take for him to follow Peter home one night? He vowed to be even more careful, but the pit of nervousness in his stomach wasn’t going away.

 

“You ought to take some pointers from Spider-Man,” Mr. Stark scoffed, standing and clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder, making him flinch. “This guy is...good,” He said, teeth gritting slightly, and Peter wondered how many times the man had  _ already  _ tried to follow him home. Peter’s eyes narrowed and he turned away from Dr. Banner, eyeing Mr. Stark suspiciously.

 

“He didn’t just put a tracker on me, did he?” Peter asked him, fingers groping awkwardly over his shoulder. He ignored the older man’s scandalized expression.

 

“Not that I see,” Dr. Banner answered. “But you might want to wave a couple of magnets over yourself later, just in case.” That was actually a really good idea. Peter might take him up on that, despite the fact that he felt no danger in the back of his head. There  _ probably _ wasn’t a tracker.

 

“I’m offended,” Mr. Stark was saying. “Really, I’m hurt. I can’t begin to understand why the two of you would place such mistrust in me. Except for all those times that I probably earned it, I guess.” Peter relaxed again. He was surprised to find that the Avengers were kind of...silly. Speaking of which, Mr. Stark was speaking up again. “JARVIS, call the rest of the team down here, would you? Tell them something that’ll get them down here, but make it clear that it’s not an emergency, I suppose.”

 

“Only Mr. Rogers remains in the tower this afternoon, sir.”

 

“Tony?” Ms. Widow was talking, then, her voice reproachful. “What are you doing?”

 

“Um. Team-building exercise. Hey, JARVIS, make that what you tell Steve. He’ll love it.”

 

“But really, Tony,” Bruce was frowning, now. 

 

“Alright, alright,” Mr. Stark’s voice lowered. “I want to see Spidey wipe the  _ floor _ with Cap’s smug ass. Hey, c’mere, kid.” He took Peter by the shoulder and steered him back to the table. “Just...be cool. You’re being weird, getting all fan-y, and I don’t want you to pee yourself when you see Cap. I assume you have a crush of some kind on Cap? Seems like just about everyone younger than thirty does.”

 

“What makes you think I’m younger than thirty?” Peter demanded, and Mr. Stark gave him a flat look.

 

“You aren’t fooling anyone, kid. If you’re a day older than twenty-five, I’ll eat one of my own gauntlets.” Peter frowned, but his mouth snapped shut on a retort before it even fully formed as Captain America came strolling through the door as if that were a totally normal thing to do.

 

Well, he supposed it was. He lived here, after all. 

 

“Everyone,” Captain America greeted the assembled team with a nod, hands clutching a towel draped over his shoulders. From the look of him, he’d just come from some kind of workout. He didn’t seem to notice Peter at first, but then their eyes locked and Peter registered the surprise there before the super soldier straightened up, studying Peter for a moment before glancing around at the others in the room again. “Spider-Man. I don’t think we’ve officially met. Steve Rogers,” he strode forward and then suddenly Peter was shaking the hand of  _ another Avenger. _ How was this happening?

 

“Spider-Man, yeah, um, that’s, that’s me,” Peter answered, almost breathless. “It’s an honor, sir.” He could hear Mr. Stark muttering behind him, but he payed him no mind. As much as he admired Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, Captain America was a literal legend. And he was standing there, shaking Peter Parker’s hand. “I’d, uh, stand, but…” The Captain cast a glance over Peter’s shoulder and he realized that the man was looking at Tony.

 

“Spider-Man swung by to return Nat’s clothes,” the other man offered, sounding casual, and Peter’s face flushed abruptly as he realized that Mr. Stark must have told them all what had happened a few days ago. He suddenly felt even smaller than he had before, and that was saying something, considering the fact that he was standing next to a super soldier from the forties. “And he stuck around to give us a little demonstration of his web shooters. It naturally escalated into arm wrestling.”

 

Peter watched as one of the Captain’s eyebrows lifted. “Naturally,” he agreed. 

 

“Spidey here has a challenge for you, Cap,” Mr. Stark said abruptly, and Peter’s head whipped around so fast that he saw a few people jump in his periphery, but the man continued despite the snickering that was coming from Clint, now. “If you beat him at arm wrestling, I’ll stop swearing  _ and  _ I’ll cut down on my drinking.” Clint’s laughter was muffled behind his hand, but there were some snorts thrown in there. “But if he wins, then you have to pose for that calendar.” Peter stiffened. He kind of felt like he was being pushed into the middle of something here.

 

“The  _ Captain America  _ calendar?” Steve Rogers repeated scornfully. “That one you’ve been trying to push on me for months?” He paused, seemingly tempted by the thought of Tony cleaning up his act, despite the potential risk to his own pride. But then his eyes turned to Peter and he saw that Captain America was sizing him up. He could tell that the captain was taking in the narrowness of his shoulders, the skinny arms, the seemingly delicate acrobat’s physique, and suddenly Peter was a little offended. He could just  _ tell _ that Captain America was about to underestimate him. “How strong are you, son?” He asked. “Clearly strong enough, you swing around on those webs- augmented?” Peter opened his mouth to answer, but then Tony Stark’s hand was snaking around his face to clap over his mouth.

 

“Ah ah ah,” he chided. “It’s a blind bet, Cap. You in or out?” Peter watched the emotions flicking over the soldier's face. It was obviously a setup, Peter thought. Based on his public image, Peter was relatively certain that Mr. Stark wouldn’t bet his own vices if he was less than sure that he was going to win, even if Peter wasn’t sure of the outcome himself. But Captain America, if his expression was any indication, had a vice of his own, and Peter was more than willing to bet that it was stubbornness. 

 

“In,” he finally said, and Peter wanted to facepalm. These were supposed to be grown men, he thought with no small amount of horror. Was this really how adults acted behind closed doors? They were even more childish than some of the people at his high school. He watched as Captain Rogers propped his elbow against the table, and stared at that arm as Mr. Stark let go of him. It was absurdly massive. The man had a reputation for being powerful: it seemed like his strength had no bounds. Peter realized he had no idea how much force the man could put out.

 

He mentally prepared himself to be flattened.

 

He reached up to take the Captain’s elbow, but he realized with some chagrin as he gripped his hand that his elbow didn’t reach the table, now. “Uh...”

 

“Oh,” Cap’s lips twitched like he was trying not to smile and he pulled his elbow back, allowing Peter’s to touch the wood of the table.

 

“Try and be careful, you two,” Dr. Banner spoke suddenly. “The last thing we need is for you two to hurt each other.” That was the  _ last _ thing Peter wanted to hear, he thought, feeling a little sick.

 

“Don’t worry,” Captain America said, giving Peter’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll be careful.” He flashed Peter a smile that might have calmed his nerves, if he weren’t about to enter a contest of strength with  _ Captain Freaking America. _

 

“Ready?” Clint offered, then, and a moment passed where Peter could have heard a pin drop. He watched as Captain America’s face shifted into focus, eyes dropping down to their joined hands. “Go.”

 

Peter’s arm jerked as Captain America applied more pressure than any of the others, but he caught himself, pushing them back into an upright position. Peter blinked, jaw dropping as he watched Captain America’s bicep bulge. He could feel the force, it wasn’t that he couldn’t feel it- in fact, it was something of a strain, keeping them upright, but he  _ could do it _ . It was similar to the feeling of lifting a car over his head. It was hard, it was definitely a workout, but he could do it.

 

Peter pushed harder, and watched the surprise flicker over Captain America’s face as their hands tipped to the side. There was another ripple of muscle and the captain leaned forward a little as he watched their hands with fierce concentration, pushing them upright again. 

 

Peter  _ pushed _ .

 

The captain grunted with the exertion as Peter’s focus narrowed. He set his jaw, applying more and more force as the Captain’s hand wavered, then dipped. He had him on the ropes, Peter thought, exhilaration rising in his chest. The super soldier was fighting him, definitely, he was struggling under Peter’s unrelenting pressure, but slowly his hand was descending towards the table.

 

He pulled hard right at the end, and it took Peter by surprise, but he shoved him forcefully down and heard the rough slap against the table. Both of their arms relaxed immediately and Peter stared at their hands for a moment. Then, like in the movies, the sound came rushing in and Peter realized that both Clint and Mr. Stark were shouting, cheering, and Mr. Stark was trying to ruffle his hair through his mask. Peter looked up at Cap’s stunned face, then abruptly let go of his hand and leapt to his feet, both hands thrust into the air.

 

“ _ Yes! _ Holy crap! Holy crap, I actually did it!”

 

“Holy  _ shit _ , kid! Who knew you had it in you!” Mr. Stark was crowing, and Clint was slapping his back with an enthusiasm that bespoke the formation of bruises, later. “Look at his face!” Steve must have heard that, too, because he suddenly took a breath and the surprise cleared away, replaced with a smile.

 

“Consider me impressed,” Steve reached out to shake Peter’s hand again, and Peter stepped forward eagerly to meet him. “I’d heard rumors about your strength, of course- who hasn’t?”  _ What! _ “But I didn’t realize how extensive it really was.” He was beaming down at Peter, now, and the teenager felt somewhat weak at the knees. “Glad to have you on our side, son.” He squeezed his hand again before finally letting him go.

 

“Thanks, Cap, uh, Captain, sir,” Peter’s smile was so wide it hurt, but he couldn’t school it away. He was beyond elated. “That means a lot. Thank you. Wow. Thanks.” Peter took in the scene around him, feeling a glow in his chest that he didn’t really recognize. His heroes accepted him, he realized, watching Clint and Mr. Stark as they continued to shout. Dr. Banner had a little grin on his face, over where he leaned against the counter, and Captain Rogers was shaking out his hand, a pleased look hanging onto his face. He cast a glance around for the Black Widow, realizing that he hadn’t heard anything from her in a while and he saw her sitting down in the chair Cap had just vacated.

 

“My turn,” she said, voice level. That attracted the attention of the others.

 

“Did you take a fist to the head on the last mission?” Tony demanded, sounding proud. “Shortstack just beat  _ Cap _ . You think you can win?”

 

“Maybe not,” she answered with a shrug, and Peter felt wary. “But I like to gather information myself, where I can.” Her piercing gaze towards Peter’s goggles and he grinned nervously. “If you feel up to it.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he agreed, sitting back down. “If you are.” He propped his elbow up and she took it.

 

“Go easy on me, Spider-Man,” she said with a wry twist to her lips, and Peter nodded. 

 

“Yeah, uh, sure, don’t worry. I’ll be careful.” She nodded.

 

“Go.” Peter pushed and felt her muscles flex, too. He took it slow, a little nervous despite himself. He had her about halfway down when he heard a small sound slip from her throat. His eyes flicked up to her face and he found her brow furrowed, a grimace on her lips. She looked-

 

“Oh god,” he eased up immediately. “Oh my god, I didn’t- geez, I didn’t hurt you, did I? I-I didn’t, I’m sorry, I didn’t  _ mean- _ ” his voice cut off as she surged forward, slamming his hand down against the table.

 

He stared at her, feeling as shell shocked as Captain Rogers had looked a few moments ago. She looked like the cat who had gotten the cream.

 

“I win,” she said in a neutral tone, slipping her hand out of his and standing, and before he knew it everyone was laughing again. Peter continued to gape at her before a grin finally spread over his face.

 

“You win,” he agreed, and the Black Widow strode towards the door, giving him a slap on the shoulder as she went by.

 

“She got you good, webhead,” Mr. Stark was chortling. “ _ Never _ trust Nat in a competition. She’ll cheat any way she can.”

 

“I can’t believe you fell for that,” Clint was leaning on the counter now, too, a wide grin splitting his cheeks.

 

“It happens to the best of us,” Captain Rogers told him. It sounded like he was speaking from experience. Peter nodded, throwing up his hands.

 

“Hey, as far as I’m concerned, three out of four ain’t bad!”

 

“You’re right, kid, not bad,” Mr. Stark grinned over at him, wiping at his eyes. “Ooh, boy, that was  _ good _ .”

 

“Does she like me now or something?” Peter asked hopefully, thinking of the way she’d been hovering intimidatingly every moment he’d been in the Tower up until this point. 

 

Nobody answered him, but their smiles didn’t go away.

 

\---

 

“Happy Halloween, New York!” Peter cried as he slung his way over the streets of Queens. There were trick-or-treaters on the street, causing a ruckus as he flew by overhead, and he couldn’t help but feel appreciated. The Bugle might slander his name on an almost daily basis, but the youth of the city had no problem proclaiming their love for him. 

 

And that sure was something.

 

He always loved Halloween, as a kid. He could see jack-o-lanterns on steps as he passed by, strings of cobwebs and plastic bats. There was a spirit of excitement that he’d always gotten caught up in. Of course, the major draw was less important to him, now: he didn’t need a holiday to dress up and pretend to be someone else, anymore. That was his everyday life.

 

It was for the best, he supposed, because he didn’t have much time for Halloween festivities anymore. A lot of people liked to take advantage of the masks and the chaos in order to make some trouble.

 

Peter pulled a sharp turn as he heard glass shattering. Right on time, he thought to himself. It was never quiet for long, around here.

 

The source of the commotion wasn’t difficult to find- it never was, when bumbling criminals were on the scene. Unfortunately, this wasn’t quite the level of trouble he was used to dealing with.

 

“Ah, Spider-Man!” A derisive voice called, and Peter felt a shiver roll through him. He recognized that voice. He swung low and let himself roll as he let go of his web, leaping to his feet outside the bank. He could see the metal arms curling in the dark of the bank and his eyes narrowed as he focused, trying to spot the man he knew was attached. “I should have known that you would be making an appearance.”

 

“Dr. Octavius,” Peter called back. “Nice costume. I think it would be a little more complete with some handcuffs, don’t you?”

 

“Very humorous,” the voice hissed, and Peter shuddered despite his outward calm. He watched as the arms rolled in the dark, slowly pulling Otto Octavius out into the street lights. His human arms were occupied holding several sacks, presumably full of money from the bank, but all of his metal arms were writhing and snaking into the air in an incredibly menacing way. He still remembered the first time he’d encountered the villain, back in June- he’d been the second supervillain Peter had encountered. It hadn’t gone well for him, but he’d managed to bring the deranged genius into custody. He hoped that he could pull it off a little better, tonight. After all: he had almost five months more experience, now.

 

That suddenly seemed pitifully small.

 

“I think that your outfit is lacking as well, Spider-Man,” Doc Ock was continuing, oblivious to Peter’s internal musings. “You still have a lot of blood for a  _ corpse _ !” Two of his arms shot forward and Peter narrowly dodged, flipping into the air to avoid the third and the fourth. They were around him, now, so he let himself kick off of the one directly under him, using it to launch further into the air. A web shot out and latched onto the wall of the bank, and he pulled himself towards Octavius, whose arms were all extended. He managed to plant his feet on the doctor, throwing him back as Peter continued with his swing, trying to get up and away from the arms before they were able to turn on them. He didn’t want to admit it, but comments like that from villains were chilling. 

 

“Nah, my costume this year,” he called back, trying to sound cavalier as he stuck to the wall of the bank by his fingertips and toes, body facing out. “Is actually just a concerned citizen. You don’t need to be doing this, doctor! Give up now and we can go back to Ravencroft, no problem.” He thought of the last time he’d managed to get the doctor shipped off to the asylum: he’d thought that the plan had been to rid him of those metal arms? What had happened to  _ that _ ?

 

“I don’t think so,” Octavius snarled, rolling his shoulders. He’d used the bags of money as a shield when Peter had kicked him, but he was sure that the man was still feeling it. “I’ve got much more pressing business to attend to than  _ art therapy _ .” Two of the arms darted towards Peter again, forcing the teen to leap off the wall, shooting a web for the doctor’s face, but one of the metal arms took the blow instead. It didn’t seem to impede it at all.

 

“Got a Halloween party to get to? Well what are you hanging around here for? I’m sure all your friends are waiting for you, so let’s just drop the robbery and-  _ oof- _ ” One of the arms managed to swing directly into his stomach and Peter thought, rather succinctly, that it was probably very similar to how it felt to be hit with a baseball bat.

 

He went flying, crashing into the wall across the street. He could feel the bricks crunching under his back and he groaned, slumping momentarily to the concrete below.

 

“Ow,” he complained, head tipping back, but he didn’t have the time to rest. His spidey sense blared suddenly in the back of his skull and he rolled, not even opening his eyes first. He heard metal against stone and looked back to see one of the arms had stabbed towards him as Octavius had chased him across the road. He probably would have been skewered, he thought, feeling a little sick. 

 

No time, he reminded himself, throwing himself at the arm as it began to retract. “Now Doc,” he scolded. “What happened to the whole ‘Do No Harm’ thing? The Hippocratic Oath?” He scurried up the arm, using his hands and feet to stick to the metal even as the man tried to throw him off.

 

“First of all,” Another arm tried to stab at him and he leapt away, shooting webs directly at the claw to try and clamp it shut. “That phrase never appears in the Hippocratic Oath. And secondly,” Two arms swung at him: one high and one low. He dove between them, rolling back to his feet and turning to try and web the doctor’s feet to the ground. “I’m not that kind of a doctor.” His voice was heavy with scorn as one of his claws ripped the webbing away from his feet. He noticed that his other target had managed to pry itself open again, although the webbing was gumming it up a little. Well, it was something.

 

“My bad!” Peter launched off the ground again, using the taller building on this side of the street to get higher: out of the range of those arms. “I guess I just assumed, because every time I come to see you, all I get is bad news!”

 

“Well get ready for some more bad news, Spider-Man!” Octavius shouted. “Here’s your prognosis: it’s  _ terminal _ .” He surged into the air, surprising Peter as those arms pushed him off the ground and sent him sailing directly towards him. Peter twisted, trying to get off another shot of webbing before the villain could grab onto him, but it was too late. One claw closed on a wrist, and another on his waist. They smashed into the building again and Peter felt shattering glass this time as they tumbled through a window and into an office.

 

Peter felt those claws squeezing and heard a crunch even over the sound of his own cry of pain. His free arm shot a web at Octavius’s face and he nailed the shot this time, but the arms weren’t distracted even as the doctor tried to rip it away. They still squeezed, threatening to break something- something  _ else _ , if that crunch was anything to worry about. He gritted his teeth and grabbed for the claw on his waist, trying to keep an eye on the other two arms. One was supporting the doctor as he struggled and the second was trying to rip the web from his face, but it couldn’t get a grip on it. Peter turned his attention back to the claws that were still grappling with him and he wrapped his fingers around one of the three metal nails of the arm. He shuddered as he felt them breaking skin, digging into him, and tugged harshly. It broke off with a  _ snap _ , and he heard Doctor Octopus howl, that arm hastily retracting. He reached up to repeat the treatment to the second arm, but it let him go before he could, sending Peter sprawling.

 

He leapt to his feet and looked around: the office was full of cubicles. Perfect. He sprinted down an aisle, putting the thin, short walls between himself and Doc Ock long enough to break the line of sight before dropping low and throwing himself under a desk.

 

Damage report, he thought anxiously. Had he broken a bone? What had cracked? He patted over his body and found that his side was bleeding, his stomach was bruised, but his ribs felt intact. He checked his arm next and discovered the source of the sound: his second web shooter. Oh,  _ great. _ That was the last thing he needed.

 

Dr. Octavius must have gotten the web off his face, then, because he was shouting. “Come out, Spider-Man! I’ve had enough of your meddling!” There was a crash and Peter realized he was knocking over the cubicles. “You’ll pay for interrupting my work!”

 

Peter checked his web fluid levels in his surviving shooter, then changed it out just to be safe.

 

“What work is that, doctor?” He called, unable to help himself. “Stealing enough dough to retire to Florida?” He threw his arms over his head as the cubicle he was hidden inside came down on top of the desk.

 

“Hardly! This is just enough to make my next  _ prototype _ ,” the man sneered, and Peter could hear him coming closer. “But once I manage to sell  _ that _ , then perhaps I really will retire. I’ll be nearly as rich as your friend Iron Man!” Peter grimaced, slipping out under the walls and leaping forward, past the grasping arms.

 

“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched, doctor!” Peter managed to slam his fist into the man’s face, snapping his head back. Not too hard, Peter reminded himself, thinking of Cap’s arm touching down against the table. Too hard might kill him.

 

“Damn you,” Octavius snarled, staggering backwards. “I will not allow you to continue to delay me any longer! My buyer is not a patient man, and I will not let  _ you _ stop this deal from going through.”

 

“You’ve already got a buyer lined up, huh?” Peter dove out of the way again, narrowly avoiding those arms again. He told himself that he wasn’t terrified. “Sounds like one heck of a project. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

 

“Nice try, Spider-Man,” Octavius growled, and Peter’s heart stopped as he felt a claw close on the back of his neck. “But I don’t think so. Not this time.” Peter was shoved against the wall and his hands scrambled, trying to find enough purchase to push himself away again. Those pointed claws were digging into his neck, now, and he sucked in a sharp breath, grabbing for the fingers again. 

 

Two more came forward, gripping him by the wrists, and Peter had just enough time to shout “ _ No! _ ” Before Octavius spun, hurling him out the broken window. Peter was disoriented, spinning and flipping through the air too fast to get a read on which way was up. He threw a web anyway and felt it catch, nearly yanking his arm off as his fingers closed tightly on the line. Then he was falling, and he couldn’t tell how far away the ground was, couldn’t shoot another web, couldn’t see until he hit the road hard, rolling and bouncing in a way that made his body cry out in pain.

 

He lay flat on the street, trying to breathe. Oh, god, his body hurt. Oh, geeze. Was anything broken? He couldn’t tell. He just hoped that there weren’t any cars about to run him over. He also hoped that there weren’t any kids nearby to have seen that.

 

Peter took several long, steadying breaths, and forced himself to open his eyes. Where was he? Where was the bank? Where was Octavius?

 

He sat up with a groan, feeling his body aching. Better take inventory, he thought dryly. He looked down at himself and saw that his suit had ripped in multiple places... perfect. This was more damage than he could just sew up: he was going to have to make an entirely new one. Not to mention his broken web shooter...there went his allowance for the next six months.

 

Under the rips, he could see that his skin was in similarly bad shape. The sight made him hiss, and he forced himself to look away. That was going to  _ suck _ to put alcohol on later.

 

He tried to roll his shoulders and the right cooperated, but the left screamed a protest so painful he stopped immediately. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with it, but he certainly wanted to leave it alone. He grimaced, flexing his legs. They ached terribly, the skin stinging from the cuts and scrapes, muscles undoubtedly protesting hitting the road so traumatically.

 

Not broken, though, he assured himself. He used the curb to roll over carefully and his knees burned but they didn’t seem to be overly damaged, either. Peter gingerly climbed to his feet, groaning as his right ankle buckled. That did  _ not _ feel good.

 

“Gotta get back,” Peter muttered, glancing around for a landmark. His eyes landed on a bistro he knew and he groaned. He’d been thrown nearly four blocks. His good hand went to his shoulder: he didn’t think he’d be able to swing. He tested his right ankle again and felt a slight relief: it hurt like crap but managed to support him, this time. He nodded determinedly to himself and, holding his arm, started to walk. As he got used to the motion, feeling all the aches and pains of his body out, he sped up into a jog. The pain in his ankle made him want to cry, but he kept it together, refusing to let up until he got to the intersection that housed the bank.

 

All was quiet, here. The wreckage of the fight remained, but Doctor Octopus was gone. Peter tried to find his trail, but he must have thrown himself away from the buildings, rather than climbing over them: surely he knew that Peter would come back and try to follow him.

 

Peter’s shoulders slumped as he reluctantly admitted defeat. Doc Ock had gotten away with the cash. He was going to use it to build something especially nefarious, Peter was sure. Then he was going to sell it and someone  _ else  _ was going to use it to wreak havoc on the city, and he was going to have to fight that guy, too.

 

Peter turned and started to trudge home. It didn’t make him feel good, walking through the herds of trick or treaters, but at least Halloween and the sorry state of his costume allowed him to slip by mostly unnoticed. People probably thought that the blood on his costume was fake.

 

One girl, maybe nine or ten years old, stopped him, though. “Why’s your Spider-Man costume all messed up?” She asked suspiciously.

 

“I’m Spider-Man when he loses,” Peter answered ruefully, and the little girl shook her head vehemently.

 

“Spider-Man doesn’t  _ lose _ ,” she insisted. “He’s the good guy. The good guy always wins.” Peter stared down at her, then shrugged.

 

“I guess so,” he agreed, and she nodded with satisfaction, turning and scurrying after two people who must have been her parents. A slow, shaky sigh made its way out of his lungs as he thought about that, then he turned back and continued on his way home.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a looot of research for this chapter. Fun fact: these notes have been sitting at the bottom of my chapter for the last ten days so I can see them whenever I want vvv
> 
> 15:1676  
> 1.73:181  
> 123 mph  
> 10-20 with “relative ease”, 40+ as a “feat”
> 
> Those are my Spiderman stats.  
> House spider size in mm:average fifteen-year old size in mm  
> House spider speed in f/s:proportional speed in a fifteen-year-old-boy in f/s  
> Potential speed according to those calculations  
> Strength limits...in tons.
> 
> Yall, I did not pull all this 'Peter is outrageously strong' stuff outta my butt. I did my research. Cap can only lift like eight hundred pounds, you guys. That's not even ONE ton, let alone 10-20.  
> (Don't worry, Thor and the Hulk are both still stronger.)
> 
> Spider-Man is the most underrated superhero and I demand that his speed and strength get more recognition...even if Peter doesn't know the extent of his own powers, yet.
> 
> Also look at this:
> 
> http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xtHOtjgNjz0/T8oxOVqwcVI/AAAAAAAALfA/E5UnNhCJB2g/s1600/Amazing%2BSpider-Man%2B-%2B224%2B03.jpg
> 
> EDIT: MY FIRST FAN ART FOR THIS FIC!! Noiter is an incredible angel who drew a scene from this. You can ogle it over here on their tumblr!!  
> https://noiter00123.tumblr.com/post/172293527763/so-this-is-a-scene-from-this-super-cool-spiderman


	3. Balancing Act

November

 

“Peter, come and get some breakfast!”

 

“Yeah, yeah, Aunt May, I’m coming.” Peter let out a long breath, looking at himself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty; his confrontation with Doc Ock last night had left him somewhat worse for wear. The abrasions on his legs and arms were scabbed, but sore. His body was mottled with blue and yellow bruises that, while satisfying to poke, were going to make stray elbows in the hall at school even more of a hazard than usual. 

 

He gave one a poke anyway, wincing as he watched the spot change color. Cool.

 

Peter tested his ankle again next, skittishly avoiding his shoulder, for now. It bore his weight, but with no small amount of complaining. He should be able to walk alright, though. After all, during school hours there wasn’t actually much walking to be done. Outside of gym, anyway. He would probably have to skip that. Maybe he would just claim to have left his uniform at home and sit on the bleachers. The coach would probably knock his grade down a little, but he would survive.

 

He couldn’t help but notice the nagging ache in his neck. He couldn’t remember hurting it, couldn’t even remember when it would have gotten hurt, but it was nearly as present as the pain in his ankle.

 

He couldn’t procrastinate forever, he thought reluctantly, eyes lifting to his shoulder. It certainly looked worse than anything else on his body. It must have been the point of impact when he’d first hit the ground: the bruise was a deep purple that didn’t seem to have faded much overnight. He tentatively started to lift it but hissed at the deep ache it caused and lowered it again. That was a problem. It wasn’t as bad as yesterday, he thought, but it sure wasn’t good. He could really use a sling, he thought with a grimace, but he didn’t want to alert anyone as to how badly he’d managed to hurt himself. 

 

If Aunt May found out, she might find out about all these other bruises and cuts. There was no way he’d be able to convince her that something like this happened because he fell down the stairs.

 

He stared for another minute, grateful that his face was mostly alright: at least, in the acceptable range of bruises that Aunt May seemed to have come to expect of him over the last few months. “Alright,” he whispered, gingerly pulling on a  _ Star Wars  _ tee and picking up his one good webshooter from the sink where he’d dumped them both last night. “Alright, Peter. You’re Spider-Man. You can get through one day of school with a bad arm.” He aimed the nozzle somewhat awkwardly under his arm and used a thick glob of web there in order to glue the very top of his arm to his ribs. He gave a slight tug and was relieved to find that he couldn’t really move his upper arm very far, causing his shoulder minimum stress. It wouldn’t keep him from breaking free if he really needed to, but it would catch him in time to remind him that he shouldn’t be moving his arm if he could help it.

 

He gave a satisfied nod, feeling pretty pleased with his slapdash medicine, then carefully snapped the web shooter onto his wrist, minus the backup line. He doubted that he’d need much fluid, and his suit in his backup had more canisters if he needed it.

 

“Peter, you’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up!” That snapped him into gear and he snagged his favorite hoodie, pulling it on in order to hide the goo on his shirt. He would need to remember to reapply every few hours, though, tugging on his jeans.

 

“I’m coming, Aunt May, really, I am,” He shouted back, slipping one beat-up sneaker after another onto his feet. All the movement was making him sore again, but he dealt. At least it was his right arm that was still mostly functional.

 

He burst out of his room, then, fingers running through his hair as he headed for the kitchen. He was starving- it seemed like his healing factor always kicked him in the gut after something like this, burning through his calories like a wildfire. He shrugged the thought away and headed into the kitchen, where he found Aunt May pouring herself a cup of coffee.

 

“Morning, Aunt May,” He greeted her, pressing a kiss to her cheek and ducking away before she could notice the bruises on his face. Maybe he could keep her from noticing. By the time they saw each other again, they’d be mostly gone.

 

“Good morning, Peter,” She answered, and he listened to the clink of metal against ceramic as she stirred sugar into the drink as he rifled through the cabinet. “Did you sleep well?”

 

“Yeah, slept great,” He lied, stuffing four granola bars into his pockets. Two packs of crackers followed, sliding easily into his hoodie, and he ripped open a pack of Pop-Tarts, pushing them into the toaster as he made his way to the fruit bowl.  _ Awesome _ , Aunt May had bought more apples. “You working tonight?”

 

“Yes,” Aunt May sighed, and he heard her sipping from the cup before she continued. “I’m sorry, Peter. I know it’s hard on you, me working all these late hours.”

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Peter chided, turning to face her with a frown on his face. “Aunt May, no, don’t do that. I’m okay, really. I just worry about  _ you _ .”

 

“Me?” Aunt May repeated, frowning back at him. “I wish you wouldn’t. I’d much rather you worry about yourself.” She crossed the kitchen to put a hand on his face, taking in the bruises. So much for that plan, he thought wryly. “Just look at you. What happened? Is Flash picking on you again?”

 

“Nah, no, Aunt May,” he told her quickly, turning his face away in embarrassment. “These are the same bruises you’ve already seen, remember? From the other day. Fell skateboarding? I think I’m just kind of pale since I just woke up, so they look darker.” That was such crap, but Aunt May backed down, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze.  _ Ow. _

 

“Right- that slipped my mind. But my point stands. I wish you would take better care of yourself.”

 

“I know, Aunt May,” Peter said, tone apologetic, and the sudden  _ pop _ from the toaster startled laughter out of the both of them. “But hey, I’ve got to go. Don’t wanna be late for school.” His aunt’s face softened.

 

“Alright, Peter,” she agreed. “Be safe today. Don’t go skateboarding.”

 

“No promises,” he gave her a grin, snagging the hot pastries out of the toaster and dropping them onto a paper towel. “But I’ll see you later, okay? Have a good day at work.” He snagged his backpack off the floor, heading for the door. “Love you.”

 

“I love you, too, Peter.” One last glimpse over his shoulder revealed her face: she looked tired, gray, sad. Peter felt a pang of guilt, knowing that part of her troubles were caused by him.

 

He ducked his head and started the walk to school, trying to take it easy on his ankle without being late. As he jammed Pop-Tarts into his mouth, he thought about his Aunt and realized that he hadn’t thought very much about what she must be going through right now.

 

She’d only lost her husband a few months ago, he reflected unhappily. Peter had lost his uncle, his father figure- it had been his fault. He rarely allowed himself to linger on that thought for long. How much worse would it be, he wondered, to not know? Aunt May had lost her husband to random violence. He couldn’t imagine trying to wrap his head around that. He couldn’t fathom how it must feel: that helplessness.

 

Aunt May didn’t even know that Peter had been there. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her.

 

He ran his now empty hands over his face before the stickiness on his arm reminded him to lower it again. That hadn’t been the end of her troubles, Peter told himself morosely. Soon afterwards, her nephew had begun to come home hurt. Almost every night, there would be cuts and bruises and limps. He had determined flat out not to tell her what was really going on, and he thought that she probably suspected that. She never seemed to fully buy his tales of skateboarding, of mishaps in gym, or of general clumsiness. He couldn’t even use bullying as an excuse to fall back on- then she would want to check up on him, talk to the principal or something, and that was the last thing Peter wanted. Then she might find out that that particular excuse was  _ true _ .

 

He groaned to himself, thinking about the constant humiliation he endured at Flash Thompson’s hands. It would be easy to get him to stop. All he had to do was hit him back. But that wasn’t right. Flash wasn’t a  _ bad guy _ , Peter told himself for what must have been the millionth time. He was just a jerk. And no matter how big a jerk he was, he didn’t deserve to have someone with superpowers turn on him. Peter’s powers were for protecting people, not hurting them.

 

He reached into his pocket for a granola bar and was chagrined to discover nothing but empty wrappers. He must have eaten all his food while he was wrapped up in thoughts of his Aunt. Peter lifted his head to discover he was already approaching campus: he really must have been distracted.

 

A flicker of blonde caught his attention and he saw Gwen standing where the sidewalk turned towards the school, looking around. Her head turned in his direction and he caught the moment she spotted him. They locked eyes and a wide smile grew over her face, and after just a few moments he could feel an answering grin forming on his own.

 

“Good morning, Peter,” she called, turning towards him as she waited.

 

“Good morning,” he answered, trying not to feel too ashamed of himself as he let Gwen pull his attention away from his brooding. “What’s up?”

 

“I thought we could walk in together,” Gwen proposed, fingers tracing over the straps of her bag. “If you want to.”

 

“Uh- yeah, yeah, definitely,” Peter agreed quickly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Just to, um, be clear, this is us...being a thing, right?” Gwen’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t back down.

 

“Yes, Peter. This is us, being a thing.”

 

“Great. That sounds...great.” He hiked his backpack up more comfortably on his good shoulder, grinning shyly at her. “Let’s go, then.” He turned towards the school and she fell into step beside him.

 

It wasn’t as if people were gawking. It wasn’t like they were about to be the hot new gossip around school. And next to fighting Doctor Octopus, or meeting the Avengers, or...any of the things he got up to on a regular basis, maybe walking into a high school next to a sixteen year old girl shouldn’t have felt like such a big deal.

 

But he couldn’t think of anything more important, right then.

 

Peter opened the door for Gwen, meeting her smile, then followed her inside. It was far from quiet, in the hall, but the atmosphere was still more subdued than it would be later in the day. Peter would never be able to fathom why anyone thought getting teenagers out of bed so early and forcing them to sit through eight hours of classes was a good idea.

 

But this was a good idea, he thought, catching up with Gwen and snagging her fingers with his own. She turned to look at him, and he could tell that she was smiling.

 

“Well aren’t you forward, Mr. Parker,” she murmured, and he glanced back shyly.

 

“What? Oh, this?” He raised their joined hands. It didn’t slip his notice that she wasn’t trying to pull away. “Gwen, why are you holding my hand? You’re going to damage my macho-man reputation.” She let out an indignant sound and tried to snatch her hand away, but Peter didn’t let go.

 

“Very funny, Peter,” she knocked her hip against his and he managed not to stumble, despite his already unbalanced steps. “You’re a real comedian. You ought to just drop out of MSST right now and take up a career as Jerry Seinfeld’s apprentice.”

 

“Believe me,” Peter said mournfully as they stopped next to her locker. “I’ve tried. He’s not currently taking on disciples, so I guess I’m stuck graduating from here and pursuing a degree in biophysics, instead.” Gwen took her hand back from Peter and this time he let her go as she cast a faux-pitying glance his way.

 

“Life’s not fair, is it? Have you tried getting in contact with Adam Sandler?” Peter shook his head vehemently, leaning against the locker next to hers, watching as she shuffled books around.

 

“Absolutely not. I refuse to debase myself by learning from anyone but the best.” That made Gwen laugh outright, and Peter’s chest warmed with pride.

 

“I suppose I can’t argue with artistic purity,” she agreed, closing the door and snapping her lock shut again. He was delighted when her hand slid back into his and they started heading for Peter’s locker. “Well, until you hear back from him, I’m glad you intend to stick around.”

 

“Me, too.” Peter gave her hand a squeeze, forgetting about his aches and pains for a few minutes as they chattered by the lockers. 

 

“So,” Gwen took her hand back from Peter to let him dig around in his locker. He noticed her fiddling with the ends of her hair. “I was wondering if you wanted to...do something this Thursday. I don’t go into Oscorp that day, so,” she cut off, looking nervous, as if she were afraid that he would refuse.

 

“Definitely, definitely,” Peter agreed, a smile spreading over his face. “I can, um, come and pick you up- what time? Six? We can do dinner. And a movie.” Gwen was beaming at him. 

 

“Sounds great.” The warning bell rang just as Peter closed his locker, and Peter noticed that she looked disappointed. That did great things for his ego. “Guess we’d better get to class.”

 

“Guess so.” They lingered a few moments longer, and Peter took the opportunity to marvel over the feeling her company gave him. He could almost ignore the pain in his shoulder. He could set aside, for a few minutes, the shame and humiliation of losing Doctor Octopus last night. He could picture himself bringing her home to meet Aunt May...and Uncle Ben.

 

He couldn’t tell what emotion was on his face, but he suspected that it was one similar to what was shining back out of her eyes.

 

But the hallways were beginning to empty, so Peter flashed Gwen a rueful smile, sorry to let the moment end. “I’ll see you at lunch?”

 

“Definitely,” she agreed firmly, taking a step back. “I’ll see you at lunch.” She turned then and he watched her ponytail bob as she strode down the hallway. It was only as she made a right that he realized he needed to hurry or he was going to be late. He turned and forced his suddenly exhausted body to carry him to class.

 

It passed too slowly. He was distracted all morning, his thoughts flickering between Doc Ock, Gwen, the Avengers, and upcoming term projects. It was hard to concentrate on any one thing: both his civilian and superhero lives held sway, and he wasn’t willing to put one above the other. He ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing, as he looked up at the clock, disappointed to find that yet again it had only been three minutes since the last time he looked.

 

Did the Avengers have to do this? Probably not: they weren’t in high school. No term papers to worry about, no teenage romances, no epic failures like his with Dr. Octavius, and they certainly weren’t swooning over themselves.

 

He thought of Captain America’s face when he had wrestled his hand flat against the table and his contrary expression smoothed into one of pleasure. That had been  _ awesome _ .

 

He buried his face into his hands as he tried to stop looking at the clock. He really ought to concentrate, he scolded himself. On  _ something _ . He wasn’t even picky about what that thing was. Preferably either Doc Ock or Gwen, though, if he was honest. 

 

He allowed his thoughts to drift to his...what? Girlfriend? They hadn’t said the word, yet, but it kind of seemed like it was going in that direction. He still couldn’t get over the thought that he was going on dates with Gwen Stacy.

 

Pencil tracing idly through the margins of his notes, drawing stars, spiders (obviously) and too many hearts for comfort’s sake. He was  _ into  _ her, he realized abashedly. All those times he’d assured himself that his interest was an academic admiration? He realized now that he had been absolutely full of crap.

 

He let out a sigh, thinking about how cheesy it would be to write initials inside this heart as his pencil tapped slowly against the center of it, and his ankles crossed under his desk. This was pathetic, he thought, a grin slowly forming over his face, but in basically the most awesome way possible.

 

He was startled from his thoughts as the bell rang and he was surprised to discover he’d whiled away the rest of the class daydreaming about Gwen.  _ Nice. _

 

He scrambled to get all of his things into his bag then bolted from the room with the rest of his classmates, not bothering to acknowledge the teacher shouting homework assignments after them.

 

Peter stopped in the bathroom before going to meet Gwen. He needed badly to reapply the webbing to his arm: he kept accidentally moving it too far, and although he could tell that it was healing, it was still in bad enough shape that he knew he needed to keep it still. Besides, he’d like to take a look at it, if he got the chance. See how the bruising was settling. If he had to deal with students jostling against his shoulder for more than another day, he was going to scream.

 

He picked one of the less frequently used bathrooms on the fourth floor. Peter made sure to check the stalls anyway before sidling up to the foggy mirrors, taking in his appearance.

 

His face had mostly healed. There was still some faint bruising along his jaw, but nothing overly noticeable. There were darker circles under his eyes, but he knew for a fact that those had less to do with his fall and more the fact that he’d had a very hard time falling asleep last night.

 

He carefully shrugged out of his hoodie, hissing at the pain. Peter cast a glance at the sleeve and grimaced, shaking the dust of the web off before brushing off his shirt. That would...probably wash out. He might need to do a couple of controls on that before he threw them in the washing machine at home.

 

Peter wet his lips, turning his eyes back to the mirror. His hair was unkempt, but that was hardly unusual, he thought to himself with some degree of relief. He was pretty sure that he’d forgotten to comb it at all this morning, but he didn’t think that the difference was that obvious.

 

A deep breath as Peter’s hand lifted to the sleeve of his shirt. He could see the splotchy purple bruises dripping down the outside of his left arm, but as he carefully pulled the sleeve up, revealing his shoulder piece by piece, Peter let out a quiet groan. The blackened skin didn’t look much improved at all. It must have been bad, if his body was taking this much time to even take a dent out of that injury. He was suddenly very, very grateful for superhealing. He couldn’t imagine where he’d be right now without it. Probably the morgue, if he had to guess. He probed gingerly at the shoulder, mouth a tight line. It would probably take a couple more days for this to go away completely, he thought unhappily. Would he be able to swing? Probably not fast, if he could. Maybe he should learn to swing with one arm. If he did it from high enough up, he would have time to catch himself if he started to-

 

The thought cut off as the door to the bathroom burst open and Peter hastily tugged his sleeve back down, wincing at the sudden pain. He wrestled his arm back into his hoodie sleeve, not looking at the door. Act natural, he told himself despite the fact that he was doing exactly the opposite of that.

 

“Parker.” Peter flinched, eyes slowly moving towards the door. Flash Thompson stood there, face hard. 

 

“Look, Flash,” Peter felt a surge of anxiety rising in his chest. If Flash tried to give him a swirlie right now, Peter might punch him. “I’m not really...I don’t feel like dealing with you right now. Back off, man.” Flash’s expression was strange. It wasn’t mocking or angry, like it usually was when he managed to corner Peter. It was...serious.

 

“Who the hell did that shit?” He demanded, gesturing towards Peter, and it took him a moment to realize that the bully meant the bruising on his shoulder.

 

“Um. No one. I fell.” He turned back to the sink, turning the faucet on like he had just come in here to wash his hands. Yeah, that was believable. He couldn’t believe his clumsiness. Why hadn’t he heard Flash coming? He shouldn’t let himself get so distracted.

 

“You’re so full of it, Parker,” Flash scoffed, and now that Peter was listening, he could hear him moving closer. Peter watched him in the mirror as he rubbed soap mechanically into his hands. “You  _ fell _ ?”

 

“That’s right,” Peter’s jaw set stubbornly. “What do you care anyway?” That put a pause in the taller boy’s steps and Peter saw an unfamiliar emotion dart across his face.

 

“Hey. You don’t have to tell me,” He crossed his arms, standing too close to Peter for comfort. They met eyes in the mirror. “It’s not my business. But-”

 

“That’s right,” Peter quipped back, surprised by his own rising irritation. Was Flash really trying to lecture him right now? “It’s not your business.” He felt like kind of a jerk, snapping at him that way, but it made him feel a little better.

 

No, he thought with a queasy stomach, actually it didn’t. He shouldn’t take this out on Flash.

 

Peter stifled a groan and tipped his head back, letting out a long breath. “Listen, Flash,” he tried again, sounding tired even to his own ears. “I don’t...I don’t really want to do this with you. Whatever this is.” He watched as Flash’s shoulders stiffened, but he stepped back.

 

“Sure, Parker,” he agreed reluctantly after a few moments of silence. “I guess that’s your call.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else, but then his jaw snapped shut again and Peter took the opportunity to duck hurriedly out of the bathroom.

 

It must look bad, he thought with a grimace, all the injuries he kept getting. He felt sick as he wondered if people thought he was getting them at home. 

 

Gwen, he told himself. Just get to Gwen, and then he could spend the next thirty minutes talking to her about science, about her music, about photography- well, okay, he admitted to himself as he bustled down to the cafeteria, they probably wouldn’t make it through  _ all _ of those things, but that was alright. As long as he had something to think about outside of Flash, something other than Doctor Octopus,  _ anything _ other than the suddenly crushing weight of his failure.

 

What was Dr. Octavius planning?

 

\--

 

**Pete: Guess who i just ran into**

 

**Gwendy: Who?**

 

**Pete: Spider-man. He says he can meet you at the forest park carousel at 9:00 on tuesday. Does that work for you?**

 

**Gwendy: Definitely!! Tell him ill he there**

 

**Gwendy: *Be**

 

**Pete: Haha yeah okay i got it**

 

**Gwendy: Thanks so much Pete. And tell him I said thank you too if youre still with him**

 

**Pete: He says youre welcome and not to be late**

 

**Pete: Really tho gwendy dont stay out too late okay**

 

**Pete: I can come and walk you home after if you want**

 

**Gwendy: Dont worry about me, Pete. Everything will be great. :) Ill tell you all about it on Wednesday, okay?**

 

**Pete: Definitely. I cant wait to hear all about it**

 

**Gwendy: This is so exciting!!**

 

Peter stared down at his phone several days later, legs swinging. He was perched on the rooftop of a worn down office, having finally deemed himself ready for spidey-ing again. He had been out, looking hopefully for any sign of Doctor Octopus with no luck: the man had disappeared off the face of the earth.

 

Maybe that was literal, he thought trepidatiously. Maybe he ought to check the sewers. God, he hoped not. Gross.

 

He set his phone aside, feet planting against the side of the building so he could tap his toes instead. He had to be out there somewhere- doing  _ something _ . A prototype, he’d said. What was he building? Peter was afraid that he was going to find out all too soon.

 

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of a scream. Back to work, he told himself, standing up and shoving his phone back into his bag, which he left on the roof. He could come back for it later.

 

His eyes scanned for the source of the sound and he saw a young woman wrestling some kind of goon for her purse. Easy-peasy. He shot a web and swung towards them.

 

“Don’t you know you should never go through a woman’s purse?” He demanded, landing in a roll. The pair both gaped at him, but neither of them let go. “Okay, so I didn’t stick the joke. I sure stuck that landing, though. And I think I’ll stick  _ you _ ,” Two shots of web glued the large man firmly to the floor. “Right there.” The man yelped and tried to lift his feet, which only resulted in him losing his balance and toppling over. He would have pulled the woman down with him, but Peter was already there, a sticky hand on one shoulder to hold her up without hurting her. The other reached forward to yank the purse free from the perp’s grip. “Come on, man, get your act together. Here you go, ma’am. Are you alright?” She seemed a little breathless.

 

“Oh— oh my god, you saved me. Spider-Man, thank you,” she staggered a few steps back, fiddling with her purse. “Can I- oh, I’ve got to get a picture with you—” She pulled out a camera, and before he could protest, there was a bright flash of light that had him shielding his eyes even behind the goggles.

 

“Please, no flash photography during the performance,” Peter joked dryly, blinking to clear the spots from his vision. The woman looked chagrined.

 

“I’m sorry. I guess I got overexcited. I just can’t thank you enough. I never thought that  _ I’d  _ be rescued by Spider-Man.”

 

“Yeah, no problem,” Peter agreed, a little weirded out by the woman’s expression. She looked almost...smug. His spidey-sense was whispering a warning in the back of his head, but he couldn’t understand why. She wasn’t even remotely aggressive towards him. “Look, I’m...not that comfortable with people having pictures of me. I’m really sorry but could you—”

 

“Oh, absolutely, I’m so sorry,” She fiddled with the camera, then turned it towards him so that he could watch her delete it. “I wasn’t thinking, I guess.

 

“No problem,” Peter was relieved. Maybe this would quiet his spider sense. “Thanks for understanding. Anyway, I’ve gotta get going—get home safe, okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, thank you again, thank you so much.” Peter gave her a little salute, smiling at her under his mask before slinging away.

 

He didn’t think much more about the incident, especially once the weirdly clingy buzz in his head faded. Instead, he turned his attention back to seeking out Doctor Octopus. He swung between buildings, low and slow to help himself relax a little. He was literally out looking for trouble, but that didn’t mean he should go into it already wound up. He always fought better when he wasn’t feeling so ill at ease. 

 

It turned out to be a busy night. There were two other muggings he stopped in the same area, and he got that weird, low-grade warning every time he stopped them. He couldn’t figure out why: it didn’t seem like there were any weapons involved in any of them, and the bad guys were always weirdly easy to subdue. Besides, he kind of thought it might be...the victims? But that didn’t make sense.

 

He spotted another pair in an alley and he groaned, swinging their way, but he pulled up suddenly when he realized that this wasn’t a mugging. He skidded to a stop, listening in on their conversation. Normally he wouldn’t have, but with everything being so dang weird around here tonight, and the hushed tone of their voices as twilight fell, well…

 

Call Peter suspicious. He didn’t like it.

 

“The boss isn’t happy,” one man was muttering. “That’s twice already. If this keeps up, he’s gonna want us to do something about it.”

 

“And the last thing  _ I  _ want to be doing is fighting that guy,” the other agreed. Who were they talking about? Their boss? Who was it they might have to fight?

 

“It never ends well,” The man speaking was clearly disgruntled. “I’d really rather not get wrapped up in all that.”

 

“Very funny,” Came the scoffed reply.

 

“I didn’t mean it as a joke.” 

 

“We’d better be ready next Thursday, that’s all I’m saying. If he shows up—I don’t want to know what the boss’ll do.”

 

“Me, either. When the cargo comes in, we need to move fast.” Cargo, Peter thought. Next Thursday. Were they smugglers? He made a mental note to scope out the area on Thursday. There were a lot of docks on the bay, but he could check them out for any unusual activity, at least. Although he was a little worried about their boss and whoever they might have to fight. He hoped that he didn’t have to fight him, too. There was a quiet buzz—a phone going off—and someone spoke again.

 

“Alright, there’s the call. Time to get back.” Peter perked up. Were they seriously right about to lead him to their lair?  _ Nice _ . He peeked over the edge of the roof as he listened to their footsteps tapping over the cracked asphalt. Fancy shoes, he expected. Business, whatever it was, must be good. He hoped he could do something about that.

 

He leapt from one roof to another, following them several blocks to, surprise surprise, a warehouse. When the economy recovered, he thought, there was going to be nowhere for these villains to hide out. Sucked for them, Peter added with little sympathy.

 

He’d never broken up a smuggling ring before, he thought with some relish. He watched as they approached the door and knocked.

 

One, one two, one, one, pause, one two. That was going to be a pain to remember, if he needed it. The door opened, though, and the two slipped inside, missing him even as they glanced over their shoulders. A big benefit of the whole climbing walls thing, Peter preened, was that people tended not to look up. Even now, with Spider-Man working in the city, people so rarely spotted him hanging out on top of buildings. Classic New York.

 

He was half tempted to swing in there and break it up now, but he knew better. Surely not everyone who worked for this place was here right now, and the odds that the boss was were pretty small. They would just move the deal to some other place, at some other time, so that no one would be able to do anything about it. He would have to hang back until then. Show some restraint. He could do it, even if he didn’t like it. 

 

He hung out for a few more hours, watching the warehouse. The lights never turned on, but a few people went in or out every once in a while. There were a lot of people in there, he realized, based on the fact that it wasn’t the same people every time. It was a good thing that he hadn’t tried busting in; he wasn’t sure he could take the number of people this implied. What were they up to in there? He was tempted to swing closer and try to peek through the windows, but the risk was too great. Danger to himself aside, he didn’t want to spook the criminals until he caught them with whatever they were bringing into his city.

 

He realized eventually that he was starting to nod off. It must be late, he thought guiltily. He hoped that Aunt May hadn’t noticed that he hadn’t come home. He’d better head that way now, though. There wasn’t much more he was going to learn here tonight, he thought. He crept away from the edge of the roof and started jogging in the other direction, avoiding using his webs for now. He didn’t want to leave a trace.

 

He checked his phone when he got back to his bag and groaned; there were six missed calls from Aunt May and it was already three forty-five in the morning. Crap. What could he say? Maybe he would tell her that he’d fallen asleep on the subway or something. He grimaced and then took to the air, far enough away now that he was willing to use his webs. He felt terrible: his poor aunt had to worry about him way too much. He wished that he could both be Spider-Man and a good nephew. He wondered if maybe he needed to reprioritize things a little.

 

Peter managed to crawl in his window just before four o’clock, and he was relieved to see that his Aunt had finally gone to bed. The last call had been at twelve-thirty, but that didn’t mean that she hadn’t stayed up longer waiting on him. He sighed heavily, changing out of his suit and creeping out into the hall to stare at her closed door. He would have some apologies to make tomorrow.

 

He turned, heart heavy, and went to collapse into his bed.

 

\---

 

Natasha Romanoff had been watching Spider-Man.

 

She was trying to dig deeper, find out more information about him, but he was very tight-lipped about anything that he thought might give him away. Of course, she still managed to glean more than he probably assumed, but that wasn’t really the point.

 

She made a point to always be in the room when he was hanging around. Although her mistrust was beginning to fade a little, she wasn’t willing to just let him have the run of the tower, yet. He wasn’t here, now, though: she had noticed that he tended not to appear until afternoon or evening.

 

So that meant that, right now, she was watching videos of him on Youtube. There was a lot to be learned, there, she was discovering.

 

_ Spider-Man Fails _ videos were everywhere. They didn’t appear as frequently, now, and the oldest one she’d found was timestamped from May. That confirmed SHIELD’s theory about his appearance, although they tended to agree that whatever incident had heralded his rise to herodom had probably occurred in April. Watching them in chronological order, she could almost see Spider-Man coming to grips with his power. His strength, his speed, his, admittedly, hilarious swings directly into a wall. He wasn’t used to doing any of those things, she could tell. It was all new, back in May.

 

She remembered the first time she’d seen Spider-Man fight up close.

  
  


_ “Are you sure this is a good idea?” The young man had asked nervously, fists raised defensively in front of him. Steve had smiled patiently. _

 

_ “It’ll be fine,” he assured him. “I don’t intend to hurt you. And you aren’t going to hurt me, right?” Spider-man had hesitated, but it didn’t make her nervous. She could tell how anxious he was about hurting the captain just from the way he was bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “This is just practice. You said that you wanted to learn how to fight larger foes, right?” _

 

_ “Right,” the vigilante agreed reluctantly. _

 

_ “Alright. Let’s go, then.” Steve’s knees had bent, then, as he took up a ready position. Spider-Man slowly followed suit, and they both paused there for a moment before Steve lunged forward, fist already swinging. _

 

_ Spider-Man yelped, weaving to the side and skipping back a few steps. Steve didn’t let up, though, chasing after him and throwing two more punches almost faster than she could track. Spider-Man dodged them, though, and she saw him steele himself before pulling an arm back and throwing a punch of his own. _

 

_ Steve, she could tell, had seen the blow coming a mile away. He had his arms thrown up in front of him as a block before that small fist had even passed Spider-man’s cheek. She watched carefully, and was relieved to see the younger man pull his punch. _

 

_ “Don’t rear back like that,” Steve instructed him. “It tells your enemy that you’re coming.” Spider-Man had nodded, and Steve had taken the opportunity to sweep at his legs, trying to catch him off guard, but Spider-man had jumped, pulling his legs up in a way that reminded her, somehow, of a child playing jump-rope. “Good! You saw that coming?” Spider-Man shrugged, seeming to focus on trying to circle around Steve and find an opening. The soldier fell back into position as well. _

 

_ Natasha watched how Spider-Man moved. He was graceful, lithe, like a cat. He seemed to know exactly what to do with his body to get exactly what he wanted from it. She would bet on him being some kind of dancer or acrobat underneath that mask. Wouldn’t Clint be thrilled if that were the case? _

 

_ She settled back in her chair, pretending to read as she watched the two men punch each other in the face at the same time. _

 

There were, of course, innumerable videos of him web-slinging around the city. She could admire how hauntingly beautiful it could be, to be somewhere he had recently fought a battle: wispy white strands of silk swaying in the wind everywhere one looked. Clint, of course, was incorrigible with those things: he’d already begged Spider-Man to make him his own pair, but the hero had staunchly refused.

 

_ “It’s like...my thing,” Spider-Man had argued, fingers stroking over the trigger of one of the devices on his wrist. “Like how shooting is your thing? Web-slinging is mine.” _

 

_ “Listen, Spidey,” he had cajoled. She wasn’t sure when the team had near-universally agreed to calling him Spidey, but she had somehow missed the memo. “I have some really compelling arguments that you’re going to want to hear. One: I’m a sniper, Spidey: I need to be up high and far away. Those little doo-dads of yours would be invaluable up there. Two: It would help me to make a quick escape after I take a shot. I’ve got to move every time I shoot, you know, or they’ll figure out where I’m shooting from. It’s very inconvenient. Three: I  _ want  _ them.” _

 

_ Spider-Man had remained unmoved. “No way. You’ll hurt yourself, anyway. It’s not as easy as it looks, you know.” _

 

_ “I bet I could do it,” Clint argued. _

 

_ “We already did the arm wrestling thing,” Spider-Man exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “And then you showed me that you could  _ climb _ the web. But that’s not the same as  _ swinging _ on it!” _

 

_ “Come on,” Clint groaned, dragging out the second word into a whine. “Just let me try it. You can follow right behind and catch me if I fall, how about that?” Spider-Man had hesitated, then, and Clint jumped on the perceived weakness. “I’ll even let you shoot the web, if you want. I just want to swing on it.” _

 

_ The arachnid-themed hero had finally relented, despite catching sight of Natasha’s disapproving frown when he’d glanced her way. Clint hadn’t allowed him to stew, instead wrapping an arm around his shoulders and physically pulling him to the launch deck of the tower, leaving Natasha to trail warily behind. If he died, falling from the tower, at least she could try to save him. If he survived, then she could laugh at him. _

 

_ Spider-Man and Clint stood at the edge of the platform and Nat watched as the younger shot a web across the street to attach to the side of a building. “Do you know how to change directions in the air?” Spider-Man asked him suspiciously, and Clint had snagged the web from him, grinning. _

 

_ “I’ll figure it out when it comes to that,” he answered flippantly, wrapping the edge of the web around his wrists a few times. At least he was taking one very unsatisfactory precaution. _

 

_ “That’s not a very- _ hey! _ ” Clint had leapt before he’d had a chance to finish his sentence and Natasha rushed forward as they both watched him begin a very long arch downwards. They could hear him screaming from where they stood. _

 

_ “If he dies,” Natasha said suddenly, voice calm. “I’ll kill you.” _

 

_ “Oh, god,” Spider-Man had gasped, and leapt after him. _

 

What surprised her, she thought, was how many videos there were of him eating from street carts. From what she managed to gather, he would hang around vendors for almost an hour, sometimes, talking with the proprietor and the customers who managed to work up the nerve to speak with the masked vigilante. The videos sometimes showed him with his mask rolled up over his nose, but he never spoke until he had rolled it back down. The videos were never clear enough to display the small piece of tech she’d noticed on the inside of his mask.

 

_ “Something in here smells  _ so  _ good,” Spider-Man had groaned, stumbling through the door. He didn’t seem to notice that Natasha was already sitting in the kitchen. She was pretty sure that he was becoming acclimated to her presence. _

 

_ Bruce was at the stove, and he shot a glance over his shoulder at the young hero, a slight, nervous smile forming on his face. _

 

_ “You’re welcome to join me,” he offered, pulling the spoon from the overly large pot he was cooking in. The man had learned quickly that living with the Avengers meant making extra: someone was always bound to wander in and want some of whatever was being eaten. Case in point. _

 

_ “Really? Are you sure?” _

 

_ “Sure,” Bruce nodded, and Spider-Man trotted over to him. “I hope you like...vegetarian.” _

 

_ “Oh, definitely,” Spider-Man agreed quickly. “My- uh, I’m used to it. What are you making?” He peered into the pot and Bruce shifted self-consciously. _

 

_ “It’s rajma,” Bruce answered. “Indian food. Hope that’s, um, alright.” The two of them were like peas in a pod, Natasha thought dryly, listening to the shy and uncertain way they were talking to each other. Neither one seemed to be able to get more than four words out at a time. _

 

_ “That sounds awesome,” Spider-Man enthused. “Seriously. I can’t wait to try it.” _

 

_ “Well, grab a bowl,” Bruce suggested, gesturing towards the cabinet. “You came at a good time. Nat, uh, Natasha, do you want some?” Spider-Man shot a glance over at her, and his shoulders rose as if he were surprised. Had he managed to ignore her that completely? _

 

_ “Sure,” Nat had agreed casually, and Spider-Man’s body relaxed a little as he turned to open up the cabinet and find a bowl. He let Bruce serve him up a helping as Natasha strolled over to fetch some for herself. _

 

_ “Thanks, Dr. Banner,” Spider-Man had sat down at the table and rolled his mask up to display the bottom half of his face. Natasha pretended not to be staring, but she took in every detail she could. Fair skin, as she had noted before, freckles along his jaw. Likely there were more. She couldn’t see any stubble, so there was no hint of what color his hair might be. He must be a religious shaver, she thought almost resentfully. He was digging into the beans and rice with a gusto that implied he didn’t eat enough.  _

 

_ By the time Natasha sat down again, it was almost gone. She went back to examining him as he finished up, and she noticed a small piece of tech on the inside of his mask. _

 

_ A voice modulator, she realized, a mixture of frustration and excitement puddling in her gut. _

 

_ “You want some more, Spider-Man?” She offered, gesturing towards his empty bowl with her spoon. Talk, she urged him silently. “There’s plenty, right, Bruce?” _

 

_ “Oh, yeah,” Bruce mumbled, settling down next to Nat. “Help yourself, really. There’s plenty to go around. Spider-Man had beamed, then, and, to her irritation, flashed a thumbs up. He hopped up and got himself another bowl, this time with even more food piled inside. _

 

_ “It’s delicious, Bruce,” Natasha kept talking, trying to play on Spider-Man’s ever-present politeness and desperation to please. “Thanks for cooking.” Spider-Man hummed behind a mouthful of rajma and nodded vehemently. His free hand lifted and he made a circle with his thumb and pointer finger, the others splayed out in a gesture of approval. Damnit. _

 

_ “Thanks,” Bruce was mumbling bashfully into his bowl. “Just something I, um, picked up from my time in India.” Spider-Man opened his mouth and Natasha’s heart skipped a beat, but then he shoved another spoonful into his mouth and she felt like slamming her head against the table. _

 

_ “Spider-Man,” she said suddenly, clearly startling him. “You have an enhanced metabolism. How much do you normally need to eat?” No yes or no questions. He held up one finger, though, and she thought he must be messing with her, now. “One?” She asked doubtfully. “One what? Once a day?” He was shaking his head, though, and she noticed he was chewing. He was asking her to wait. He swallowed and she leaned forward a little. _

 

_ He rolled his mask back down. “I eat a  _ lot _ ,” he confided, shrugging one shoulder. His voice sounded the same as always. “I never seem to get full.”  _

 

_ Her spoon jabbed back into the rajma a little more forcefully than was necessary. _

 

“Miss Romanoff, Spider-Man has entered the tower,” JARVIS alerted her suddenly, jarring her from her reminiscing. In retrospect, it had been kind of funny, the way he refused to talk with his mask up, and she could appreciate his dedication, but it still chafed on her. She didn’t like the lack of results she was getting.

 

“Thank you, JARVIS,” Natasha answered, shutting off the screen to her tablet. “Where is he going?”

 

“To the lab.”

 

“Of course.” She rolled her eyes: the young man was clearly still getting over his worship of Tony Stark. He always sought him out first, unless the man was in a meeting. She strode over to the elevator and stepped inside as JARVIS opened it for her. “Take me there, would you? Before he gets there, if you can.”

 

“As always, Ms. Romanoff.” Natasha felt the elevator drop, and she was fairly certain that Spider-Man’s had just slowed minutely. She had time to leave the elevator and lean casually against a counter before Spider-Man appeared. Tony glanced at her, but his attention was pulled away by the appearance of the young vigilante.

 

“Hey, guys,” he said cheerfully. “What’s up?”

 

“Hey, Spidey,” Tony beckoned him over, and the web slinger strode across the lab, sparing a wave to Natasha. “I think I might have gotten that web fluid of yours figured out. Tell me if I’m right.” Spider-Man laughed, confident and somewhat cocky-sounding as he sidled up to Tony, leaning over his work.

 

“I doubt it,” he teased. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t think you ever will.”

 

“No, I’m pretty sure I’ve got it,” he pulled up a formula one one of his holographic screens. Spider-Man just hummed noncommittally, arms crossed. He looked somewhat amused.

 

“I’ll never tell.”

 

“Jesus, kid, you’re killing me,” Tony complained, flicking at the compound so that it displayed a paragraph full of letters and numbers too small for her to read clearly from here. “Just tell me if I’m close, otherwise I’ll just have to test it out myself, and I really don’t need another incident in here.”

 

“No can do. I guess you’ll just run that risk.” Spider-Man snickered, and Natasha felt her suspicions rise. Something about this was off. “But hey, I don’t want to just talk about things I already know all afternoon,” Spider-Man insisted, straightening up. “Why don’t you tell me about what you’ve been working on?”

 

“Just some upgrades for the suit,” Tony replied dismissively. 

 

“No, come on,” Spider-Man insisted. “I want to learn from you, man. So teach me something.” Tony looked kind of flattered, despite himself, but Nat’s eyes narrowed. Why was he striking her so weird today? 

 

“Okay, well, how about-”

 

“Tony,” Natasha interrupted. Her instincts were demanding that she figure out what was wrong, and she didn’t want him divulging any of his research until she had done so.

 

“Hmm?” Tony didn’t look up from what he was doing, but Spider-Man looked her way. She frowned, sending a ping to his screen through JARVIS.

 

**Nix. Not Kosher. -NR**

 

Tony looked at her, then, one eyebrow lifted, and she saw him remove the message from the screen as soon as he’d read it.

 

“Spider-Man,” he said, managing to sound casual. “I’m actually starving. You wanna grab some grub before we get into all this?” Spider-Man hesitated, then nodded.

 

“I could eat,” he agreed, which sounded normal enough, but Natasha didn’t let her guard down. The man was glancing between the two of them, probably wondering what had passed between them. “What’re we having?”

 

“I was thinking Thai,” Tony shut down the screen and headed for the elevator, raising his eyebrows demandingly at Natasha once Spider-Man couldn’t see his face. She kept her own neutral, waiting for Spider-Man to pass her to follow them into the elevator. 

 

“JARVIS, take us upstairs. And order some Thai food, while you’re at it. From that place I like. The fast one.” He turned his attention to the younger hero, then. “You’ll love it, Spidey,” he told him amiably, but Natasha could see the uncomfortable way he held his shoulders. “You like Thai, right?”

 

“I don’t want you to think you have to,” Spider-Man deflected shyly, but he was bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. “But—wow, I really appreciate it. You’re the best.” It seemed like him: it was exactly how he acted when someone offered him free food from one of the carts he frequented. She didn’t take her eyes off him.

 

“It’s no problem, kid, you know I don’t mind spending a little cash on a friend.”

 

“Heh, yeah,” Spider-Man ran a hand over the top of his head: something she’d seen him do countless times, but her internal alarm was going off. She was almost sure now. “It’s good to have a friend like you, Tony. You’re a real stand-up guy.” Natasha’s eyes hardened and the elevator opened, letting them out into the common room. Spider-Man trotted out first, and Natasha grabbed Tony’s shoulder to keep him behind her. 

 

“Hey Spider-Man,” Natasha called, tossing her Starkpad at him. “Catch.” He turned too late: the pad hit him in the shoulder, making him flinch even as he fumbled to grab at it.

 

“Oh,” He winced again as it hit the floor. “Oops.” But before he could say another word Natasha was on him. She threw a punch, which he dodged, but her leg sweep caught him and he fell hard, grunting. She heard a repulsor lighting up behind her and she lunged down, delivering a swift blow to the stomach that knocked the air out of Spider-Man. “Guys!” He wheezed, trying to scramble up onto his hands, but Natasha landed hard on his shoulders with both knees, pinning him down. “Guys, what are you doing?!”

 

“Who are you?” Natasha demanded, and she could hear the repulsor next to her ear, now, aimed threateningly at the guy’s face.

 

“What are you talking about?” Spider-Man was still gasping, trying to catch his breath again. “You know me!”

 

“Do we?” Natasha grabbed at his mask and yanked it off. Underneath there was a young man, staring up at her in horror, and she took in every detail. Short brown hair, brown eyes. Fair skin with freckles. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties. It was similar to what she’d expected. “Tell me your name,” she demanded, and Spider-Man seemed to recover a little.

 

“You know I’m not going to do that,” he scoffed. “And I’m not thrilled that you took my mask.” Natasha grinned triumphantly. 

 

“You’re not Spider-Man,” she saw his expression shift as she flashed him a dangerous smile.

 

“What are you-”

 

“You can’t lie to me. You’ve been sending all the wrong signals.”

 

“Nat?” That was Tony, this time. She realized he wasn’t seeing all the things she was, but she appreciated that he was backing her up anyway. “Care to explain?”

 

“Haven’t you noticed? He isn’t acting like Spider-Man.” The fraud under her opened his mouth to object again, but she interrupted. “Oh, sure, you got his mannerisms down. His public ones, anyway. But he doesn’t act like that here. He certainly doesn’t call Tony by his first name.” She reached down to grip his face, his lips forced upwards. “And he doesn’t sound the same when you take off the mask.” There was a flash of realization in the phony’s eyes, and he grinned regretfully.

 

“I guess I didn’t take that into account,” he admitted.

 

“So who are you?” Natasha demanded again, but the man under her shook his head, that smile remaining.

 

“You won’t get any answers out of me.”

 

“JARVIS, scan him.” Tony demanded.

 

“Scanning, sir.” A moment’s pause. “Although this man matches Spider-Man’s voice, there are numerous physical differences. His approximate height and weight are different, and his bodily systems do not match that of an augmented human, as Spider-Man is presumed to be.” Natasha noticed that the man looked more and more tense the more the AI talked.

 

“Why didn’t you  _ lead  _ with that?”

 

“It was not a part of his profile, sir,” JARVIS answered, sounding a little offended. “It is only with retrospective analysis that I am able to determine this information at all.” Tony paused.

 

“Fair point. We’re getting that kid a more extensive profile next time he comes in. Remind me.”

 

“Yes, sir. There is one other thing. There are abnormal readings from the exposed skin on his body.” The imposter’s teeth were gritted, now, and his breath was picking up. Before Tony managed to prompt him further, though, the sneak under her managed to flip her off of him and he got an arm around her throat. Tony let out a shout of alarm, but he and Natasha were grappling with each other, now, so she knew he wouldn’t have a clean shot. No problem. While she could tell that whoever this was had some training in hand-to-hand, he was no expert.

 

And he was dealing with the Black Widow.

 

She threw her weight backwards, rolling them over again, and she slammed the back of her head into his face. It hurt, sure, but it certainly hurt him worse. She heard him cry out in pain and used the distraction in order to wrench his arm off of her, then rolled off of him so she could jab at the tender spot where his neck met his chin and he gagged, vomiting abruptly. Natasha flipped him onto his back while he was distracted and planted a knee into the center of his spine, making him shout again as she yanked both arms back. He didn’t even have time to throw a punch.

 

“You wanted to steal Stark tech, didn’t you?” Natasha murmured, calm and even. “Your plan might have worked, if I hadn’t already been on guard.” She pulled on his arms, making him yelp. “Who are you? Who are you working for?” She could feel him trying to pull his arms free, but he didn’t answer her. “Alright. I guess we’re doing this the hard way. Stark, check the inside of the mask. The real Spiderman has a voice modulator installed there.”

 

“A voice modulator?” Tony sounded scandalized, but he appeared in her periphery, picking up the discarded fabric and flipping it inside out. “There’s one here,” he agreed, picking at it with his fingernail. It was clear that he wanted to open it up, but he held himself back. “Do you think he took this from Spider-Man?”

 

“I don’t know. These aren’t Spider-Man’s usually active hours, so there’s no way of knowing.”

 

“Damn. Okay. Hey, JARVIS, go ahead and put in a call to SHIELD for me, would you? We’ve got someone we need detained. And questioned. Thoroughly.” Stark sounded pissed, despite the way he was managing to keep his voice relaxed. “And while you’re at it, keep an eye out for Spider-Man on any live footage we’ve got of the city, yeah? Let me know if you see him.”

 

“Right away, sir,” JARVIS agreed, and there were a few moment’s pause as the fraud under Natasha tried to twist out of her grip, but she refused to relent for even a moment. She rotated his arms further back, causing him to yelp. Whoever this was, he certainly wasn’t used to getting caught, if his reactions were any indication. “SHIELD has a team on the way. They should arrive in approximately ten minutes.”

 

“Alright,” Natasha dug her knee into the thief’s back, feeling spiteful despite herself. It was strange, she thought disinterestedly. Just when she’d begun to ease up her suspicions on Spider-Man, this happened, and now it felt like she was back to square one. How typical. “Ten minutes to do whatever we want to this little creep.” He jerked under her and Natasha smirked. “Tony, could you get one of your extra suits up here to hold our friend, here?” Tony snorted.

 

“A multimillion dollar powered suit of armor is not the same as a pair of  _ handcuffs _ , Nat,” he scolded her, but she watched him summon a suit anyway. JARVIS guided it for him, piloting it into the common room and landing it without so much as a scorch mark on the floor before opening the front.

 

“Get up,” Nat instructed, climbing off of the fraud without letting go of his arms, levering him upwards in what must be an incredibly painful way. He scrambled to get his feet under him but he still didn’t speak, staggering as she steered him by the arms towards the suit. His shoulders were tight, but he wasn’t attempting to escape, at the moment: it seemed like he understood that he wasn’t going to be able to get past the two of them even if he did manage to twist out of her grip.

 

Natasha spun him around and pushed him backwards into the suit, watching it catch him. Before it could close, there were two bright flashes of light and Natasha winced, squinting through them even as the suit slid shut around the two of them. She could hear laughter from inside and it sent a shiver down her spine.

 

She and Tony exchanged a significant glance. “JARVIS, what was that?” Tony demanded.

 

“I’m not sure, sir,” JARVIS admitted. 

 

“Jesus. Alright. Open up the faceplate, but that suit stays  _ powered off _ and it  _ does not move _ until I say so. Me, nobody else. Got that?”

 

“Yes, sir.” The faceplate slid back into the suit, exposing the face of the young man inside. Natasha stepped close to examine him further, and he met her gaze with a steely one of his own. The jawline was exactly the same, she marveled, as Spider-Man’s, down the the freckles on his chin. How had he managed that? Makeup?

 

She reached forward and he tried to flinch back, but she caught his chin and smeared her thumb against those freckles. The skin  _ moved, _ sliding to the side under the force of her finger.

 

She recoiled in disgust. “Did you see that?” She demanded of Tony, and glanced over his shoulder to see him looking similarly repulsed. 

 

“What the hell?” He demanded, coming closer. The stranger gritted his teeth, struggling in the suit.

 

“Don’t touch me!” He demanded, trying to turn his face away, but Natasha reached out and grabbed him by the hair, pulling hard. She watched in horror as his skin began to pull away-  _ a mask, she realized-  _  revealing smooth white underneath.

 

\---

 

“Peter-Man,” The teen mumbled, swinging his legs off the top of a building. He was staring down at Forest Park, anxiously awaiting Gwen’s arrival. “Spider-Parker.” It was only eight forty-five, but Gwen was one of those girls who would rather be early than late. It made it all the more miraculous that she forgave his habitual lateness.

 

He was trying to work himself up to acting like he didn’t know Gwen. He wasn’t sure exactly how he was going to pull it off, especially since the two of them had been spending more and more time together lately. How could he pretend that he didn’t know that her favorite color was blue? Or that she loved her Oscorp internship so much that she wanted to turn it into a career? Or that, when it was really sunny out, the light off her hair was almost blinding?

 

It was going to be hard to keep the two halves of his life straight, he fretted, kicking his heels against the brick. Who was he supposed to be, talking to Gwen? To him, Spider-Man and Peter Parker were the same thing. No one else in the world had that same view, though.

 

“Spider-Parker,” he said again, watching the people moving in and out of the park. The carousel had already been turned off for the night, but the street lights provided plenty of illumination in the park. “Peter-Man.” Then, “I hope she isn’t disappointed.”

 

He straightened abruptly as he spotted Gwen walking into view, hands clutching the strap of the bag over her shoulder. She looked excited, he noticed with considerable relief. He was worried that she would be nervous. He smiled to himself, checking the time again. Eight fifty-five. Not so early as he would have thought. Maybe she was a little nervous after all. 

 

Peter stood, balancing on the edge of the roof, watching as she came to a stop near the carousel. She was looking around, presumably trying to spot him, and he took the opportunity to swing down towards her. She caught sight of him as he dipped below the treeline, her mouth popping open in surprise. He wondered if she had thought he wouldn’t show.

 

He landed as gracefully as possible, which was really much more difficult than people probably assumed, but Gwen didn’t seem to notice. “Spider-Man,” she breathed, face lighting up.

 

“Gwen,” he was grateful for the voice distorter. He couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t have recognized him without it. “It’s good to see you again.”

 

“You remember me?” She was fiddling with her hair, and Peter felt a surge of warmth for her. He came a little closer, letting the light fall fully on him so that she could see him.

 

“Of course I do. It was September. A mugger…” Gwen was nodding quickly.

 

“That’s right! I just- I was so shocked at the time, I was rattled, I guess, I feel like I didn’t get the chance to thank you properly.”

 

“No thanks necessary, miss,” Peter replied, a grin splitting his cheeks as he planted his hands on his hips in a pose that he hoped looked heroic instead of goofy. If Gwen’s giggle was anything to go by, it wasn’t terribly effective. “It’s all a part of the job.”

 

“No, really,” Gwen insisted. “Look, I...made you something.” She was digging in his bag and she pulled out a package in shiny red wrapping paper. She had made him something? Why hadn’t she mentioned it to him? “I know it’s not Christmas, yet, and wow, suddenly I’m feeling really silly about this. It’s dumb, maybe I should just... do something else—”

 

“No!” Peter exclaimed, and his voice cracked, causing a short distortion in his tone. He cleared his throat. “Um. I bet it’s great. Can I…?” He held his hand out, and Gwen shyly placed the package in it. “Am I allowed to open it, or should I hang onto it until Christmas?” He was beaming broadly under his mask, and he could see a bashful smile on her face, too.

 

“You can open it, of course you can, it’s yours,” Gwen fell silent, fingers tucking into her coat pockets. Peter beamed and carefully peeled up the tape, feeling weird about just ripping into it right in front of her. Gwen watched him as he unfolded the paper to reveal what was inside. “It’s stupid,” she said, shoulders high. He wasn’t sure if it was because she was cold or embarrassed, but it wasn’t hard to take a guess. “If you don’t want to, um, to wear them then that’s totally fine.”

 

He stared, taking in the sight of the knitted hat and scarf. Red and blue to match his uniform, with carefully designed black spiders at each end of the scarf and at the front of the hat.

 

“It’s just the only thing I could really think of,” Gwen was babbling, he realized. She must be feeling so nervous right now.

 

Peter beamed under his mask, tossing the scarf around his neck and tugging the hat over his head, down to his ears. “How do I look?” He asked, interrupting her, and she looked at him, clearly delighted.

 

“I think it looks great,” Gwen told him, regaining some of her composure.

 

“I really appreciate it,” Peter told her. “You have no idea. Spandex honestly isn’t great for keeping out the cold,” he gestured to himself and Gwen looked momentarily concerned. “No, don’t worry! It’s fine. I’m fine. I keep busy, it keeps me warm. And these will help a lot. Seriously.” He tugged at one end of the scarf, wrapping it more securely around his neck. “Nice and toasty.”

 

Gwen ducked her head, one hand pushing hair behind her ear. “Well- I hope so. I hate the thought of you being out here in just that. I know that it isn’t much, but—” Peter’s hand touched her shoulder and she fell silent, looking up at him. Peter wanted to kiss her, but since Peter Parker was dating her, not Spider-Man, it would be way too weird.

 

“It’s perfect. It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you, Gwen.” Her face flushed as her expression lit up with pride and she nodded.

 

“Thank  _ you _ , Spider-Man. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up.” Peter gave her shoulder a squeeze, then let go. 

 

“You’d better be getting home,” he suggested. “And I need to get back to work. But it was really great seeing you again.”

 

“You, too,” She agreed brightly, taking a hesitant step backwards. Peter smiled at her, then casually balled up the paper in his hands despite his previous hesitation and threw it directly into a nearby trashcan.

 

“Kobe,” he cried, startling a laugh out of her, and he laughed too, turning and shooting a web to pull him up and away from Gwen.

 

He scrambled back up onto the roof he had been on before, teeth chattering as he changed out of his spider-suit and back into Peter Parker’s clothes. He regretfully placed the hat and scarf Gwen had made for him in his backpack along with it before climbing back down to street level, careful not to let anyone see him. Then he took off running in the direction Gwen had come from.

 

“Gwen!” He called when he spotted her, and he watched her surprise as she turned to face him, waiting for him to catch up.

 

“Peter?” She opened her arms to him, beaming widely, and he trotted into them pulling her into a tight hug, but she interrupted with a firm kiss. “Thank you so much, Peter,” she breathed when she leaned back. “I talked to him. It was...it was  _ amazing _ .” Peter’s face flushed and he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

 

“Good! Great! I’m glad it went so well. Did you get to say what you wanted to say?”

 

“Yeah,” Gwen hugged him again, laying her head against his shoulder. “You’re the best boyfriend ever, Peter. Thank you.” They held each other for a few moments in the cold November darkness before finally parting, and Gwen seemed to remember something. “But—what are you doing here?”

 

“I said I’d walk you home, didn’t I?”

 

“Peter! You didn’t have to come out here for that,” Gwen scolded him, but she didn’t really look upset. He just gave her a cheeky grin in return.

 

“Oh, well. Too late now. Let’s get you home, okay?” 

 

“Okay.” Gwen slipped one gloved hand into Peter’s, and they walked together out of Forest Park.

 

Peter rode that high through Thursday, and probably could have continued to do so if he hadn’t had to buckle in to handle whatever was going to go down at that warehouse. He hated that he didn’t get to hang out with Gwen on one of her few weekdays off. He made some lame excuse about needing to get home to Aunt May before webbing off towards Little Neck.

 

He made it there in the early afternoon: his top swinging speed was getting pretty fast. He found the warehouse from before and zipped overhead, landing on the roof. He listened, but couldn’t hear anyone from where he was so he crawled down the wall, peering in windows. Offices upstairs, he noticed: must have been where the administration worked. He could see that some of them had been recently used, based on the disrepair of others, but they were all empty.

 

He continued lower until he was able to see the open floor of the warehouse. There were crates piled inside, and enough people swarming around that he wasn’t able to count them all. He could see an empty space marked off, and he wondered if that was where they planned on putting their incoming cargo.

 

He crawled back up the wall and leapt, running from rooftop to rooftop where he could, using his webs where he needed to. He sprinted, tracing the line of the bay, checking for different places that a boat could unload a shipment of any kind. He was devastated to find that there were countless small, private docks along the bay, in addition to the Bayside Marina and the Hague Basin on the northeast-most point of the water.

 

Okay, he could whittle this down. If it really was something illegal, he doubted that they would use a popular venue like the Basin or the marina. They would probably use one of the many lesser used docks. But which one?

 

Peter shook his head, heading back to the warehouse as the sun began to set. None of them looked suspicious: he would have to follow them wherever they went. It would be risky, he thought warily, but he didn’t know what else to do. So in the meantime, he settled down on a roof a few buildings down from the warehouse, watching for any signs of movement.

 

Time dragged. Hours passed. Peter played on his phone, the brightness set as low as possible and hidden behind the short wall while he waited.

 

The sound of voices caught his ear just before midnight. He shut his phone off and dumped it back in his bag, crouching down with just his eyes peeking up above the ridge as he watched six men come out of the warehouse. They weren’t talking loudly, but in the quiet of this area in the middle of the night, their voices rang out clearly to Peter’s heightened senses.

 

“Alright,” one was saying. “In and out. No mistakes.”

 

“No kidding. I don’t want the boss comin’ down on  _ my _ ass.”

 

“Shut it, would you? We’re trying to keep a low profile here.”

 

So much for  _ that _ , Peter thought disparagingly, watching a they piled into a white cargo van. How typical. He waited as the headlights came on, listening to the engine rumbling as they pulled out onto the street, heading south. Peter waited for them to pass, then followed, carefully staying out of sight as much as possible. He followed them along the coast, heart racing. This was it: he was going to put a stop to this. He shrugged his backpack higher up onto his shoulders, assuring himself that he didn’t drop it anywhere in his jumps. He was going to need his phone. There was no way he was going to cart their cargo, whatever it was, anywhere on his own.

 

They drove for about twenty minutes before pulling up to a small dock he’d noticed. It was membership only, he thought hopefully. At least, that’ what the sign outside said. Peter crouched on the roof of a large house across the street, watching them as they backed the van up to the iron fence blocking off the pier.

 

“This is it,” he thought, flattening himself out. He pulled out his phone and dialed 911, wishing that he had someone else’s to use. “There’s something going on at the Douglas Manor Dock,” he whispered as soon as he heard the operator on the other end. “There are a bunch of men here, I think they’ve got guns. Send help!” He hung up, then, and turned his attention back to the ocean. He could see a boat in the distance and he wondered if it was coming this way. The men were trooping out over the water, now, and he could see that, yeah, the boat was coming. He waited until they were near the end of the pier before jumping across the street and landing on the small hut by the road, hiding behind the roof as he waited.

 

“Right on time,” he heard as the engine of the boat puttered up to the dock. He could hear shifting around, and a peek around the edge of the roof assured him that they were pulling it in. He leaned back, listening to the quiet chatter.

 

“Yeah, well, we almost got busted by the harbor police,” Another voice sneered. “We got lucky.”

 

“We can’t afford to ride on luck, here,” Someone snapped. “How many times I gotta tell you bozos we’re doin’ this  _ right _ ?”

 

“Right,”

 

“Yeah,”

 

“Sorry.” There was more murmuring, but they were too far away for Peter to pick it up. He rolled onto his stomach and shimmied up the roof to look over the pointed tip.

 

The men, ten of them, now, were unloading more crates from the boat. Peter wet his lips, waiting anxiously. He wanted to make sure that none of them were able to flee. An idea occurred to him and he slid silently to the ground, spraying a thick, sticky layer of web across the dock near the land. Anyone who tried to run over it would stick.

 

He leapt over it, then, startling the group at the end of the dock as he landed. “Little cold to be boating, don’t you think, fellas?” He called, voice cheerful. “It must get pretty nippy out over the water.” He wished he could be wearing his hat and scarf right now, but he didn’t want to risk them.

 

“It’s Spider-Man! Open fire!”

 

“Oh, crap,” Peter threw himself to the ground as his spidey-sense flared to life and a dozen bullets went right over his head. He skittered forward, causing several cries of alarm at what must have been a somewhat terrifying display. He pushed himself back to his feet as the gunshots ceased and found himself in front of one of the ten men. A quick jab to the gut and he went down on his knees. A warning in his skull warned him in time to duck to the side and he spun to face a second, repeating the maneuver and attaching them both to the wood with his webbing.

 

Eight to go.

 

There was another spray of bullets and he launched himself into the air, landing behind them. He managed to kick a guy in the back of his knees and snag the gun from his hands. He hurled it directly into the webbing at the end of the dock with one hand and elbowed him in the face with the other, but then he had to dodge the bullets again.

 

Then they got smart and rushed him all at once, trying to grab him, but he jumped again, back to the other side of them One well placed kick to the rear caused something of a domino effect that ended with two men stumbling into the water with matching shouts of surprise.

 

Halfway done. The guys were trying to get back on the boat, now, shouting amongst themselves as they scrambled aboard. Peter sprayed two webs to the side of the boat and attached it to the dock, then sprayed more directly into the rotor to gum it up.

 

“Damnit!” One guy yelled, aiming his gun again, but now Peter was on top of the situation. He hooked it out of his hand with another strand of web and attached it to the dock.

 

“Spider-Man,” this time the voice was calm. Surprisingly so. Peter spun and—

 

_ Caught Gwen, laughing so hard he could feel his eyes tearing up. She was snorting, unable to control herself as she leaned her weight against him, clutching her sides. _

 

_ “Oh! Oh my god, Pete! That was  _ so bad.” _ Peter hugged her, her own chortles ringing in his ears. _

 

_ “I am so sorry,” Peter giggled. “I did  _ not  _ know that movie was going to be so terrible. The previews made it look good, I promise.” _

 

_ They staggered down the sidewalk away from the theater together, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist.  _

 

_ “The special effects were honestly painful,” Gwen snickered, and Peter nodded vigorously.  _

 

_ “I don’t know what I was thinking. I promise I’ll take you to a better one next time.” _

 

_ “Next time, Mr. Parker?” Gwen teased him. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you. After a movie that bad, maybe I don’t  _ want _ a second date.” _

 

_ “Let me make it up to you,” Peter suggested, a grin still plastered onto his face. “Over dinner. I got us a reservation at the finest restaurant in town.” _

 

_ “Oh, really? Where are we going, the Shake Shack?” Gwen looked so smug. _

 

_ “I’ll have you know,” Peter answered primly. “That we’re going to TGI Fridays.” _

 

_ “Oh! My mistake,” Gwen elbowed him, giving him what had to be the most beautiful smile anyone had ever worn. “We’re going to TGI Fridays? Consider that bad movie completely forgiven.” Peter squeezed her shoulder, laughing again, and she twisted out from under his arm, grabbing him by the hand. He looked at her, with the city lights reflected off her eyes, in her hair and she was so gorgeous. They looked at each other and he leaned in _ —

 

The space in front of him, where the voice had been coming from, was empty. Peter reeled, panting. What was that?

 

“Calm down, Spider-Man.” Peter twisted again—

 

_ Aunt May served him a large bowl of soup and Peter groaned with appreciation. _

 

_ “Aunt May, seriously, you’re the best ever. I love you so much.” _

 

_ “I love you, too, dear,” Aunt May ruffled his hair and he didn’t bother to complain. He was too busy practically gulping down his dinner, grateful for the warmth it gave. “I do wish you hadn’t stayed out so long with it being so cold out!” _

 

_ “It’s not a big deal.” Peter shrugged, watching as she sat down across the table from him. “I just had some stuff I needed to do.” _

 

_ “Something to do with that girl of yours?” Aunt May asked so casually he almost missed it, but then he nearly choked on a chunk of chicken. _

 

_ “Girl! Ha, Aunt May, what girl?” Peter asked, but his voice cracked in his nervousness and he could feel his face warming up. _

 

_ “What’s her name, Gwendolyn?” _

 

_ “H-how’d you hear about that?” Peter asked weakly, spoon drooping, forgotten momentarily, into his bowl. _

 

_ “Anna told me all about it,” May waved her hand dismissively. “Apparently her MJ heard that you two were dating and she told her aunt.” Peter ducked his head, embarrassed. “Is she pretty?” _

 

_ “She’s so pretty, Aunt May,” Peter mumbled, a smile forming on his face. “Um,” He pulled out his phone and opened the gallery to flip through a few photos until he found one of him and Gwen squeezed together in a shot. “This is her. Gwen.” He slid the phone across the table to her and Aunt May took it, crooning. Peter was grateful for the distraction. Even though he hadn’t planned on saying anything to Aunt May yet, it was better that she think he were with Gwen than out fighting bank robbers _ —

 

Peter came to on the dock, panting, and saw that the men who should have been in front of him were gone. 

 

“Spider-Man.” Peter didn’t move, this time, shaking in his boots. What was happening? “It’s alright. I don’t intend to hurt you.”

 

“Should we take his mask, boss?” Peter’s blood went cold and his hands clenched into fists as he listened hard, staring at the empty water ahead of him, the boat rocking gently to his left.

 

“No,” Came the sharp reply, but then the voice gentled, and Peter heard footsteps approaching him. “No, Spider-Man. I’m not going to unmask you.” There were a few more moments of silence, but then the smooth tenor voice spoke right in his ear. “I admire what you’re doing.”

 

Peter threw an elbow out behind him, trying to catch the speaker in the gut and he felt it connect before—

 

_ Peter groaned, clutching his side as he leaned heavily against the cool brick of the alley. The hot, muggy summer air made him wish that he could rip off his mask, but any moment someone could come along, find him here, weak and injured, completely vulnerable...he couldn’t risk it. _

 

_ His hands lifted hesitantly and he whimpered at the sight of blood staining his gloves and streaking down his hip. Obviously getting stabbed hurt,  _ obviously, _ everybody knew that. But he supposed he hadn’t really grasped the full extent of it, until now. _

 

_ He stayed there for what felt like hours. He panted, leaning his head against the wall, trying to soak in a little of the coolness. He was sweating, it was getting in his eyes, god, his side hurt so badly- _

 

Peter grasped at his side, gasping, his knees weak. “What are you doing to me?” He demanded, voice breathless.

 

“Hush,” came the soothing reply from behind him. “Just a minor punishment for your lack of manners. I’ll forgive you for that, though. After all, you must be frightened. But don’t worry, Spider-Man. I mean it when I say that I’m on your side. I would never hurt a comrade in arms. And I hope you feel the same way.”

 

“Who are you?” Peter demanded, the phantom pain in his side beginning to fade.

 

“Ah-ah-ah,” The man tutted. “I don’t think I can quite trust you with that information, right now. But just know that I’m here to help. So I hope,” a hand gripped his shoulder and Peter flinched, but didn’t turn. “That you’ll stop butting into my business.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“You’ve interfered with my affairs one too many times, Spider-Man,” the voice took on a more dangerous timbre, now, but Peter’s spidey-sense wasn’t going off, so he held still.

 

“You hired Doctor Octavius,” he guessed, starting to shiver.

 

“That’s right. You also stopped a very important delivery of mine back in September.” Peter tried to remember, but he felt shaken, scrambled, like he couldn’t entirely focus. “And now this. I don’t want this to happen again, Spider-Man. Do you understand that?” Before Peter could snap a retort, a voice at the end of the pier was shouting.

 

“Boss! The police are coming! We gotta go!”

 

“Damnit,” The man hissed, and suddenly Peter was being gripped by both shoulders as someone whispered directly into his ear. “I don’t want to be your enemy, Spider-Man. Don’t  _ make me _ be your enemy.” Peter tried to break free of his grip but—

 

_ “You’re sure you don’t mind?” _

 

_ “Not at all,” Ms. Widow had replied, dropping the controller and raising her hands in disgust. “I was only playing so that Clint would stop whining at me. I’m glad to bow out.” _

 

_ “Finally,” Clint grinned up at him, patting the spot between himself and the Black Widow. “I bet Spidey here knows how to play Super Smash Bros, don’t you, Spidey?” _

 

_ “Absolutely,” Peter agreed, a smile crossing his face as he flopped down between them, feeling only a little awkward about it. “The real question is, how do  _ you _ know how to play? Aren’t you like, fifty?” Mr. Stark let out a long jeer from where he was in the kitchen. _

 

_ “Hey, I’m by far the hippest Avenger,” Clint informed him, and Peter had to snicker.  _

 

_ “Yeah, right,” He selected Cloud as his character. “None of you guys are hip.” _

 

_ “Hey,” Mr. Stark protested, wandering in, looking offended. Clint hit start, then, so he had to look away. “I take offense to that. I’m basically one of the trendiest guys on the planet.” _

 

_ “Keep telling yourself that,” Peter snorted, and this time it was Clint and the Black Widow who laughed. _

 

When Peter came to this time, there were flashing blue and red lights coming from behind him.  He spun, half expecting to lose himself to another memory, but whoever it was who had been here was gone. There were police cars at the end of the dock, and the crates were still behind him, but the boat had disappeared, the web securing it to the doc having been cut.

 

“Hands up!” An officer called, pointing a gun at him, and Peter obeyed, walking forward slowly.

 

“Hey, calm down!” He called, sounding confident even though he still felt shaken. “It’s just me, your friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man. I busted this situation up for you, but I’m not really sure what’s in those crates,” he gestured behind him, watching the policeman stare him down. “You might wanna check that out... and a warehouse about twenty minutes from here. It’s where they’re based. If you’re quick, maybe you can catch them before they clear out.” He recited the address off the top of his head, hoping he’d gotten it right. The officer continued to hesitate for a moment before lowering his gun with a huff.

 

“Get outta here, Spider-Man,” he said with a grimace. “Before someone gets it into their head that you’re an accomplice.” Peter gave a salute, grinning under his mask, and webbed up to the roof in order to leap for taller buildings where he could really use his webs.

 

That had been... very strange, Peter thought to himself, feeling uneasy. But hey! At least he’d thrown a wrench into whatever their operation was. He made a mental note to check the news tomorrow so he could find out what had been in those crates.

 

He would feel pretty silly if it was toys or something, but he had a pretty strong inkling that it wasn’t.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers in the comments, be careful! Don't read them unless you're caught up.


	4. Cold Air, Cold Beer, and a Change of Pace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete and Co celebrate the holidays!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly fluff and exposition, this chapter. Hope you enjoy it!

**December**

 

_“Where’s Parker?”_

 

It seemed, Peter thought, like his life was just one person calling his name after another. He was always late, never where he was supposed to be, and frequently not on task. At least this time he was fairly confident that the ire being directed towards him wasn’t really his fault. After all, the man was _always_ that angry.

 

Betty Brant, the secretary to the editor of the _Daily Bugle_ , gave him a sympathetic smile. “He’s been shouting about you all day,” she warned him. “All the Spider-Man pictures he’s been getting have been...subpar. He wanted me to call you, but I knew that you were in school.” They both winced as Jameson shouted at whatever poor chump he’d just gotten on the phone, and Betty shook her head. “I hope you’ve got something good enough to calm him down.”

 

“I think so,” Peter waved the portfolio a little, glancing at the door. “I worked really hard to get these. I kind of need the extra Christmas cash, you know?” Betty nodded again, and the understanding look on her face made him smile. She was always very nice to him: almost enough to balance out the whole thing with ol’ triple J behind the door.

 

“Oh? Got someone special you’re buying for this year?” She prompted him, teasing, and Peter felt his face warm up as a goofy smile spread over his face.

 

“Maybe,” He agreed, drawing out the word as he rocked back on his heels, and Betty raised her eyebrows in that indulgent way adults did when they thought kids said something funny. “I got a girlfriend.” And a team of superhero friends, but that wasn’t what she was looking for, so he didn’t mention it.

 

“Oh, Petey’s got a girlfriend?” She crowed, clearly amused by whatever expression he currently had on his face. “Is she pretty?” Why did everyone always ask that?

 

“She’s gorgeous,” he agreed, but he was cut off by the door to the office behind Betty’s desk slammed open.

 

“Is that Parker I hear?” The middle aged man peered out suspiciously, eyes locking in on him immediately. “You!” A finger jabbed towards Peter. “Get in here. Now!”

 

He turned and stormed back to his desk, leaving Peter and Betty to exchange a glance before the teen trotted after him, shutting the door behind himself.

 

“You really took your time, Parker,” J. Jonah grimaced at him, settling down behind his desk. Peter stood in front of it, knowing better, by now, than to try and sit in one of the chairs. He wondered if _anyone_ was allowed to sit there.

 

“Sorry, Mr. Jameson,” Peter smiled apologetically. “I’ve been pretty busy, and Spider-Man’s not easy to track down, you know?”

 

“He must be,” Jameson barked, holding out his hand, and Peter put the folder into it. “None of my full-time photographers have been able to get close.” Comments like that always made Peter feel a little guilty; like he was cheating. But the editor was flipping through his photos, now, so Peter paid attention. The man was notoriously hard to please, but Peter thought that he was getting better at understanding what he wanted. Peter flinging through the air, crouched against the skyline, shooting webs, climbing buildings. No pictures of himself fighting thugs, or helping old women cross the street, or anything like that. Nothing _specific._ It was harder for Jameson to slander him if it was a picture of him taking a cat out of a tree. The public would only buy so many newspapers with a headline like “SPIDER-MAN STRANDS CAT IN TREE”.

 

“Garbage,” Jameson announced, dumping about half of the prints in the trash, and Peter winced, but it wasn’t necessarily unexpected. Most of his photos didn’t make it into the paper, after all; that’s why he’d brought so many, this time. “I’ll take these.” He shook the remaining photos in the air, and Peter nodded, a bright smile coming to his face. There were still eight in his hands. That would probably get him a couple hundred dollars.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Jameson,” Peter agreed cheerfully, stepping back towards the door. “Have a good Christmas!”

 

“Why are you smiling in my office? Your _cheer_ is going to give me a hernia. Get out of here. Talk to Ms. Brant for your check.” He was waving his hand impatiently, shooing Peter from the office, and the teen ducked out before Jameson decided to start yelling again, beaming at Betty as he came to stand in front of her desk again.

 

“Eight!” Jameson called just before the door slammed shut, and Betty looked surprised.

 

“Well merry Christmas, Peter,” she said, already writing him a check. “I hope you intend to make this last, because Jameson probably won’t want any more for a while.”

 

“I will,” Peter promised, taking the proffered slip. “After I buy Christmas presents, the rest of this is going straight in the piggy bank,” he folded it carefully and tucked the check into his wallet. “Thanks, Betty.”

 

“You’re welcome,” She picked up the ringing phone then and she shooed him, too, but as always, it was more good-natured than her boss. Peter waved as she talked on the phone before turning and heading for the elevator.

 

It was super lame, Peter thought, as he pressed the button, that it wasn’t automatic. Not everyone could have a JARVIS, he supposed.

 

That thought turned his focus to the Avengers. It had been a few weeks since he’d seen them, but he really _had_ been busy. He’d been all over town, trying to track down either Dr. Octavius or the villain from the dock. Peter had been stricken with doubt, at first, about whether or not he was really a villain: after all, he’d been _almost_ reassuring, that night.

 

Aside from the spooky memory power, that was. And the vivid memory of that time he’d been stabbed. That had been far from friendly.

 

But when he had put research into the findings of the police, he had been assured of his evil-doing. The crates, as he had suspected, had been full of guns. The heavy kind; submachine guns, assault rifles, guns he had had to research. It made Peter shudder, thinking about how many of them must have been in those crates. His stomach turned completely every time he remembered the innumerable stacks in that warehouse. How many had there been? What _else_ had the man been hoarding?

 

Because the police hadn’t found anything, Peter had discovered. The warehouse had already been emptied by the time they arrived.

 

So he was still on the loose. So was his band of goons. And so was Doc Ock. Peter was in the middle of a pretty bad run, he thought dispiritedly. He really wanted to turn that around before he faced the Avengers again. He couldn’t face them, knowing that he’d let so many villains get away.

 

Peter exited the building, striking out with the crowd, still lost in his thoughts.

 

“Hey, kid.”

 

Where could he check next? He had skittered through a few miles of sewer, yesterday, which had been summarily the worst experience of his life, but there had been no sign of habitation.

 

He suspected that there really were alligators down there, though, so it was creepy as heck.

 

“ _Kid_.”

 

He’d been over the warehouse district maybe thirty times, but he still hadn’t managed to check all of them; it was _impossible_ . He ought to check all those factories, too, south of Hell’s Kitchen: according to the internet, Daredevil had been fighting a lot of baddies in that area. He ought to take a look. Oh, man, what if he ran into the other vigilante? That would be _so cool—_

 

“Peter Parker!” Peter finally realized that the the familiar voice behind him was directed his way when he heard his own name. He turned and found himself face to face with Tony Stark.

 

He gaped. Oh, god, they’d figured out who he was, he realized, eyes widening. Mr. Stark was here to— to what? Make him stop fighting crime? Threaten to expose him? No, probably not that. Just to let him know that they knew?

 

“M-Mr. Stark,” Peter stammered.

 

“Jesus, kid,” The man standing in a suit on the sidewalk in Manhattan was a bizarre sight, for some reason. He’d only ever seen him in the tower, wearing band tees and jeans, or after a fight. He looked more like the mogul than Iron Man. “Head in the clouds? I’ve been calling you for a full block. I need to talk to you. You got a minute?”

 

“Uh, um,” Peter was fidgeting, glancing around. People were staring; even in New York, the unflappable city, people were distracted by the sight of a superhero on the street. “Yeah. Yes. I have a minute.”

 

“Good.” Mr. Stark grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him back down the sidewalk. “You’re the...photographer kid, yes? For Spider-Man.”

 

Dear lord. He was being approached about photography.

 

“Yes!” Peter exclaimed, hands shoving into his coat pockets. The spandex sleeves of his suit were rolled up, making it almost impossible for them to be discovered under the long sleeves of his multiple layers, but he was nervous about it all the same. “Yes, that’s me. The...photographer kid,” he said through gritted teeth, looking up at Mr. Stark out of the corner of his eyes. He didn’t look at all suspicious and Peter was grateful that they hadn’t sent Ms. Romanoff, instead. “Did you need...pictures?” He offered uncomfortably. He didn’t really want to give pictures of himself to the Avengers. He wasn’t sure that they wouldn’t be able to figure something out that he didn’t want them to. Not that they couldn’t find them in the newspaper, but it was the principle of the matter.

 

“No, no,” Mr. Stark waved his free hand dismissively, and Peter felt a little frustrated. He was seeing a lot of dismissive hand waves, today. “You close with Spider-Man? Friendly?”

 

“Um.” He liked this line of questioning even less than the one about photography. “Not really,” he lied, shrugging, and Mr. Stark finally let go of his shoulder. “I mean, we’ve talked, but not extensively or anything.”

 

“Mm. How do you find him, to take his pictures? You got a contact for him?”

 

“No,” Peter stared down at the sidewalk, trying not to look guilty. He was probably the worst liar in Queens, and he didn’t want to look Mr. Stark in the face right now. “Just...right place, right time, I guess.” Mr. Stark snorted at that.

 

“Yeah, right. Let me guess: you go out _looking_ for trouble, don’t you? Listen to a police scanner?” Peter shot him another look, his guilt shining out through an uncomfortable smile.

 

“Traffic app,” he admitted, and the man’s brow furrowed so he explained. “Um. Ever since things started getting really crazy, there are apps that, you know, tell you where things are going down so you can avoid them. I just...go there, and Spider-Man is there sometimes.”

 

“You kids with your apps, honestly.”

 

Peter stared at him. This man was a tech genius, and even _he_ complained about millennials? Dang.

 

“Alright. So you follow Spider-Man to the disasters. Some of these photos are pretty close to the action, kid.” He was flipping through a slideshow on his phone, and Peter just shrugged again. “It’s a miracle you aren’t dead. If I ever caught some kid of _mine_ dangling out a window, taking pictures of a supervillain fight—”

 

“Did you need something, Mr. Stark?” Peter prompted him, not really wanting a lecture from Iron Man on safety. That seemed to remind the man what he’d actually come here for.

 

“Right. I’m trying to get in contact with Spider-Man,” he informed Peter, who gawked.

 

“So you came to me?”

 

“It’s not like he’s passing out business cards,” Mr. Stark scoffed, and Peter thought that that was actually a pretty cool idea. Spider-Man, they would read, and then under that, smaller, it would have a Twitter handle. Maybe _@therealspiderman_. That sounded super legit. He tuned back in to what he was being told. “Do you know how to reach him or not?”

 

Peter stopped on the sidewalk, shuffling his feet as Mr. Stark stopped and turned to look back at him. “Mr. Stark,” he said hesitantly. “Why don’t you just track him down? You guys can do that, right? If some teen with a camera can do it, you guys could, too.”

 

The man’s face hardened. “That won’t work for me, kid. I need to be sure I’ve got the right guy.” Peter blinked at him, confused. “Listen,” Mr. Stark continued, tipping his sunglasses down a little to look over the rims at him. “If you run into Spider-Man...be careful.”

 

“He’s not dangerous,” Peter said defensively. “He’s a good guy.”

 

“I know, kid, don’t get all prissy on me,” Mr. Stark straightened up again, a frown on his face. “I just mean...there are some weird people running around, and it’s hard to tell who’s who in a mask. I don’t want you getting in trouble because you think you know more about a vigilante than you do.”

 

If only Mr. Stark knew.

 

“Okay,” Peter agreed suspiciously. What was he talking about? Was he saying that there was someone out there with a Spider-Man costume? That seemed like something he should look into. “Well, I can tell him that you’re looking for him next time I see him, if you want,” he offered, and Mr. Stark shook his head, frustrated.

 

“Thanks anyway, kid, but there are a couple more people I can try.” Who, Peter wanted to demand. Who else did the Avengers connect with Spider-Man? “Okay. That’s enough. Take care of yourself, buckaroo.” Mr. Stark turned to the street and a sleek black car pulled up. How had he managed to time it like that?

 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter called as he started to climb into the passenger seat, and the billionaire glanced over his shoulder at him. “Uh- did, did you get my internship application?”

 

“Someone’ll call you, kid,” he answered, then slid into the vehicle and shut the door. Peter watched as it drove away, then allowed himself to basically have a heart attack, there on the sidewalk.

 

Why had he brought up his _internship application?_ He’d put that in at the beginning of the semester, and this was so not the time. He should be concerned that he’d managed to make it onto the Avenger’s radar as Peter Parker, not wondering if he would get to intern under the guy. Especially since that would seriously cut into his Spider-Man time.

 

Peter groaned and pressed his face into both hands. Honestly, he was so embarrassing sometimes. He needed to work on his filter.

 

His shoulders dropped and he lifted his head again, thinking about what Mr. Stark had said. Was there a Spider-Man copycat out there? Someone that the Avengers were worried about? Was he committing crimes in Spider-Man’s name? He frowned, turning to jog back the way he’d been going, looking for somewhere to make a quick change.

 

It really wasn’t that difficult. There were a lot of hiding places in Manhattan, if one knew where to look. It was minutes later that Peter was emerging from a tight space behind a stack of boxes, Spider-Man suit in place, complete with the hat and scarf Gwen had made him.

 

He scaled the nearest building, crawling about halfway up the reflective windows before turning towards the street. He supposed he’d better head for Avenger’s Tower. From the sound of it, the whole situation was pretty urgent. If they were out looking for him… he felt bad about not stopping by the tower, now.

 

But then again, if he showed up immediately after Iron Man talked to Peter Parker, who claimed to have no way to contact him, that would be kind of obvious, wouldn’t it? Maybe he could just pretend to be swinging by to do some Christmas present investigation. If he pressed it hard enough, maybe they’d believe it.

 

No, he reminded himself, he was a terrible liar. He was lucky that Mr. Stark was probably so used to people being flustered around him, or he would have been busted for sure.

 

Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t go to the tower. He threw himself forward, catching himself with a web and swinging North to Madison Square Park. He was only blocks from the Avenger’s Tower, he thought with a frown. He didn’t have to go over there: all he had to do was be visible. They would probably hear that he was here immediately and someone would come and find him, if they wanted to.

 

Shake Shack, he decided abruptly, swinging down through the trees. He’d just gotten paid. He could afford to splurge a little.

 

“Hey, hey, afternoon, look out,” Peter drawled as he hit the ground, jogging to wear out his momentum as he entered the line at the Shack.

 

“Spider-Man!” A man slapped him on the shoulder and Peter turned to find a grin on his face. “Hey!”

 

“How’s it going?” Peter beamed under his mask, noticing that he was drawing stares. He didn’t really mind. It would certainly help get the Avenger’s attention, and, hey, after spending some time in the Bugle, it was nice to have a little positive reinforcement. All those front pages with slander against him could kind of wear a guy’s self esteem down.

 

“Great, man! You gettin’ some food? Let me pay for you.”

 

“Ah, what? No way, dude, I can’t let you do that,” Peter felt his face warming with pleasure. “What’s your name?”

 

“I’m Jack,” The man said, a wide smile still plastered over his face. “And I ain’t gonna hear any arguments from you, Spider-Man. You stopped my kid’s school bus from crashin’ last month.” Peter blinked, then grinned back at him, although he knew Jack couldn’t see.

 

“Yeah? I’m glad I was there, that’s all I can say,” Peter said, and Jack laughed as they both shuffled forward in line.

 

“Me, too,” Jack insisted, elbowing him amiably. “Who knows what might’a happened? Your lunch is on me, pal. And I don’t wanna hear another word about it.”

 

“That’s so nice,” Peter gushed, completely ignoring his last statement. “I tell you, New York’s got a bad reputation, but you’ll never meet a nicer bunch of people.” Peter glanced around and saw a couple of people listening in on the conversation with smiles on their faces. “I love this city.”

 

“It loves you, too, Spidey,” Jack must be a real heavy physical affection kind of guy, because he was slapping Peter’s back again. “No matter what that damn _Bugle_ says, _real_ New Yorkers know the truth. You’re out there every day workin’ for us, and you oughtta be gettin’ more recognition than you do.”

 

“Ah, nah, it doesn’t really bother me,” Peter shrugged, grateful for the spandex covering his red cheeks. “I’m not out here trying to make people like me. Although, you know, it’s pretty great when they do.” He nudged Jack back, then, and they moved forward again, close to the front of the line, now.

 

“Hey, man, I know this is lame,” Jack looked a little flustered, suddenly. “But can I get your autograph or somethin’? My kid’ll _freak_ if I come home and say I met you without gettin’ him a signature. He hasn’t been able to shut up about you all week.”

 

Peter was immensely flattered. “Y-yeah,” he agreed quickly, shifting from foot to foot. “Yeah, definitely. You, uh, you got somethin’ for me to sign?” He was beaming, arms crossing over his chest as he mulled over the fact that someone _literally_ just asked him for his autograph.

 

“For sure,” Jack agreed, fumbling into his coat pockets. He came up with one of those small spiral notebooks and a Sharpie, and Peter watched as he flipped through several pages of chicken scratch writing before finding a blank one. “Here.” He thrust both into Peter’s hands, and the teen grinned bashfully down at the paper.

 

“Wow,” he breathed, putting the marker to the paper. “No one’s ever— this is the first time anyone’s— This is just way cool, man, you have no idea. I’m not like Tony Stark or something,” Peter confided, sketching a spider onto the paper. It matched the symbol on his chest, of course. “I’m just a normal guy with spider powers, so this is like...insane,” He handed the notepad back to Jack, who was grinning at him.

 

“No kidding?” He looked at the paper for several moments before shutting the notebook and sliding it and the marker back into his pocket. “Well don’t worry, I’m feelin’ pretty rattled myself,” Jack answered, stepping up to the booth with Peter. “Not every day I get a superhero’s autograph! Hey,” He turned to the teenager- older than Peter, he noticed with chagrin- running the counter and continued. “Get me a cheeseburger and fries, and then— what do you want, Spidey?”

 

“You sure about this?”

 

Jack snorted. “Get the kid a hotdog. You like hotdogs, right, Spidey? Seems like plenty of people have seen you eatin’ them.”

 

“Yeah, I like hotdogs,”

 

“And some cheese fries. You like cheese fries, kid? Yeah, okay, cheesefries. Anything else?” He looked at Peter, eyebrows lifted expectantly, and Peter shook his head quickly, hands going up.

 

“That’s enough, thank you. Seriously.” Jack considered him, then turned back to the cashier.

 

“Two hotdogs.”

 

“ _Jack_ ,” Peter protested, but Jack pointedly ignored him, swiping his card and accepting his receipt and gripping Peter by the arm, pulling him out of the line and off to the pickup counter.

 

“What did I say, Spidey?” He demanded. “Not another word. This is the _least_ I can do. You saved my kid, so just shut up and let me buy you lunch, yeah?”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Peter agreed sheepishly, hand running over the top of his mask. “Thanks, Jack.”

 

“Any time.” They made small talk until their order came up, at which point Jack thanked him heartily again and departed, leaving Peter to collect his food and jump up onto the roof. He settled down there, chatting with the people in line and waiting to see if the Avengers would come find him.

 

It was only twenty minutes and three more free hotdogs later when he spotted a familiar flash of red hair. He started to call out a greeting before abruptly deciding that the super spy probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

 

“But hey,” Peter said to the young mother he was chatting with. Her baby had been really easy to amuse. “I think if I hang around here any longer, I’ll probably explode, so I’d better get going.” He pushed himself to his feet, smiling down at her. “Stay safe, okay?” He tugged his mask back down and swung down to the ground, strolling cheerfully over to the woman who’d caught his eye. “Hey, Ms. Romanoff! How are you? What are you doing here?” He was in such a good mood that it bled into his voice, safely removing any hint of his worry over a copycat.

 

“Spider-Man,” she greeted him with a nod, and Peter thought about how _weird_ it was to see her in _athleisure._ Were those the same sweatpants she had loaned him? He suspected that they were. She looked like a jogger, he realized with some amusement, then wondered if that was what she was going for. “We need you to come in.”

 

“Why?” He frowned slightly at the somewhat foreboding phrasing. “Am I being arrested or something?” He tried to joke, but he sounded more uneasy, now, and Ms. Romanoff’s smile did nothing to calm his fears.

 

“Only if you’re not who you say you are,” She answered. “Are you going to come willingly? Or are the SHIELD agents in this park going to have to make themselves apparent?”

 

“SHIELD?” Peter repeated aloud. “There are SHIELD agents here?” He glanced around. “Um, no, no need for… that. I am who I say I am, unless you heard my Tony Stark impression, the whole ‘ _I am Iron Man_ ’ thing, which is definitely not true. That was a joke. I’m definitely Spider-Man, though, so if that’s what you’re asking, then yeah, I am who I say I am.” She didn’t look especially amused, but the carefully neutral set of her mouth twitched just slightly in what he thought might have been an aborted smile. At least, he hoped that it had been.

 

“Alright, good. There’s a car waiting. Let’s go.” She gripped him by the arm, which just about scared the crap right out of him, and dragged him out of the park and to the street. Just as she had said, there was a black car waiting, and she pushed him inside before following herself. He noticed that she never took her eyes off him

 

Peter fidgeted, awkwardly buckling himself in. Ms. Romanoff did not do the same. Oh. Maybe superheroes were too cool for seatbelts? No, that couldn’t be true. Seatbelts weren’t a _fashion statement._ They were a safety precaution. Superheroes should be even more well versed in those than other people. “Shouldn’t you buckle up?” He prompted her, and she raised an eyebrow incredulously. “I know it’s not the law,” Peter said, adopting an argumentative tone. “But it’s important. You’re not augmented, right? You could be seriously hurt in a car crash.”

 

Her other eyebrow rose, too, and she stared for a moment before buckling her seatbelt.

 

“Nice scarf,” She commented, and Peter grinned bashfully beneath the mask.

 

“Oh,” he gripped both ends. “It was a gift,” he said, sounding just as delighted as when he’d first received it. “A girl I saved made it for me.”

 

“How did she know where to find you?” Ms. Romanoff’s voice was even, completely neutral, but Peter suspected that she was frustrated. He felt kind of bad about it.

 

“Um— you know Peter Parker?” He didn’t at all like bringing up his own name, but lying would only hurt his case. “He takes all the photos of me for the Daily Bugle? I saw him one night and he asked me to meet up with her, because she wanted to thank me.”

 

“And you didn’t suspect that it might be a trap?”

 

“Well, no,” Peter frowned, then. “I mean, Peter’s fifteen, right? And Gwen— the girl— she’s uh, about his age, too. I don’t think that kids their age are really that duplicitous?” _Some_ kids were, sure, but Peter knew for a fact that Gwen was not one of them. He just couldn’t really explain that to the Black Widow. She was giving him a completely unimpressed look, though, that made him feel like she could see right through him.

 

“You need to be more careful,” She scolded him, and Peter was taken aback. She sounded...almost like a mother hen. A grin slowly spread over his face.

 

“Careful, Ms. Romanoff,” Peter said slyly. “Keep talking like that and I might start to think that you like me.” She snorted and Peter let her punch his shoulder. It was definitely hard enough to hurt, but not to damage.

 

“And another thing,” She continued. “Don’t call me that anymore. If you call me ‘Ms. Romanoff’ or ‘Ms. Widow’ again, I’ll be forced to assume that you’re an imposter. It’s Natasha or Nat from now on. No arguments.” Peter shuffled a little in his seat, pleased.

 

“Okay. Thanks, um, Natasha.” That felt kind of nice. Had he actually managed to win over the assassin? That sounded fake, but okay. Before he could say anything else, though, they pulled up to Stark Tower. She gestured for Peter to climb out of the car on his side, then slid over to follow. She was watching him, again, he noticed, and once she was out of the car she took hold of his arm again, gripping firmly. “You know, not that I object to being on the arm of a beautiful woman or anything,” Peter noticed her roll her eyes, smirking. “But I can walk on my own. I came willingly, remember? I’m not going to run off or anything.”

 

“We can’t risk it,” Natasha— wow, it felt kind of weird to call her that— answered curtly. “We’ll explain everything upstairs.”

 

“But-”

 

“Hush,” she insisted, hauling him into the elevator. Once the door had shut, she let go of Peter. “JARVIS, please confirm Spider-Man’s physiology.” There was a pause that gave Peter time to feel both offended and self-conscious before the AI answered.

 

“Confirmed,” JARVIS answered. “Spider-Man’s approximate height and weight match the expected parameters, and signs of augmentation are present.” Peter flinched and cast an accusatory glance that was wasted on Natasha.

 

“What’s what about?” He demanded, and the woman just shrugged.

 

“It’s the best way to make sure that we’ve found that doesn’t require demasking you, taking a blood sample, or implanting a chip.” Peter flinched at that. “Exactly. It’s the least invasive, wouldn’t you say? So stop complaining.” The elevator doors opened then, onto a floor Peter had never been to. It looked like something out of a movie, he thought disbelievingly. Offices and conference rooms. They passed several glass ones with long tables, one of which was occupied by a group of people in suits who stopped talking to stare at Peter and Natasha as they went by, but then they were passing through a door.

 

Another conference room, was Peter’s first thought. Oh, was his second, the Avengers were here. Most of them, anyway. Cap, Clint, Dr. Banner, was that Sam Wilson? And _holy crap was that the Winter Soldier?_

 

“JARVIS, please confirm the identity of everyone in the room,” Natasha prompted, pushing Peter ahead of her to take one of the remaining seats at the table, ignoring his attempts to gawk at the two members he hadn’t met yet. She sat next to him as JARVIS answered.

 

“All present Avengers have passed identity qualifications,” He assured her. “And sir is on his way up in the elevator now.”

 

“Spider-Man,” Cap spoke up first, and Peter was surprised to find relief on his face. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter ran a hand over his head, wishing he could play with his hair. “Um. Why wouldn’t I be?” There was a series of exchanged glances at the table that made Peter feel incredibly out of the loop. He really wished that he had swung by here before now.

 

“There’s been...an incident,” Captain Rogers said, voice firm. “A copycat. He first came to our notice masquerading as you, and we weren’t… we were worried that he might have hurt you.”

 

“A copycat?” Peter repeated, as if he hadn’t already discerned that for himself. “Someone’s dressing up as me?”

 

“As a bunch of people, actually,” Clint answered flippantly. “He’s some kind of...disguise artist.” The door opened then and Peter’s head whipped around as his spidey-sense warned him of an incoming object, which he reached up and caught.

 

“And just where the hell have you been?” Mr. Stark was there in the door, a scowl on his face. Peter stared at him, bewildered, then looked down at the item in his hand. It looked like an earpiece? “Well? Speak up! Why don’t you tell the class why you decided to disappear as soon as some lunatic implies that he killed you and stole your suit?”

 

“What?” Peter blinked behind his mask, completely lost.

 

“Tony was worried about you,” Natasha answered, and Peter felt his face warming with pleasure even as Mr. Stark’s expression darkened.

 

“Shut up, Nat, I wasn’t talking to you.”

 

“Tony,” Cap began placatingly, but Mr. Stark cut him off.

 

“No, don’t _‘Tony’_ me. Don’t try and act like we haven’t all been going half out of our minds trying to track down this twerp so we could make sure he was safe.”

 

“It’s not like I was hiding,” Peter objected, but he still sounded entirely too happy for Mr. Stark, if the sour look on his face was any indication. “I was around.”

 

“Oh,” Mr. Stark replied, throwing up his hands. “You were _around_ . Well that clears it all up! I think we’ve covered, kid, how hard you are to track. By time word hit us about you taking down some mugger or something, you’d already be gone. Aren’t you supposed to be in Queens? I’ve been _all over_ that damn borough looking for you.”

 

“I usually _am_ ,” Peter replied, fingers lacing together on the table. “I’ve been out by Little Neck a lot lately.”

 

“This is not happening again,” Mr. Stark growled, and Peter caught sight of Clint stifling a grin behind his hand. “You will _use that_ .” He pointed to the device still clutched in Peter’s hand. “It’s a comm. We’ll be able to contact you by it, and you can contact us if you need us. _Do not_ let anyone else get their hands on it under any circumstance.” Peter was torn between being incredibly touched that he was being presented with a comm with which to reach the Avengers— albeit rather unceremoniously— and being suspicious.

 

“It has a tracker in it, doesn’t it?” Peter asked, eyes narrowing, and Mr. Stark slapped both hands down on the end of the conference table.

 

“No! No, it does _not_ have a damn tracker! I’ll let you take it apart yourself, look through the code all you want. That thing will not track you, it’s practically a _beeper._ ”

 

Captain America jumped in, then. “We know how you are about your privacy, Spider-Man, and we can respect that. We just think it would be wise for you to have something like this, for the immediate future.”

 

“Tony,” That was Natasha. “Why don’t you tell him what it actually does? Show him how to use it.” Mr. Stark sucked in a sharp breath.

 

“Alright, Thwippy, put it on. It goes around your ear, with the part that is obviously a button right against the tragus.” Peter didn’t need the man to demonstrate what part of the ear he meant, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he hesitated, fidgeting with the tech in his hand.

 

“Um.” He glanced around nervously. Everyone was watching him. Okay. He could do this fine. He tugged the neck of his mask out enough to slip one hand up inside it, awkwardly fumbling and ignoring Nat’s quiet “for the love of god” until he managed to get the comm settled in a way that felt right. “Okay.” He pulled his hand free and tucked his mask back into place.

 

“That sucker’s gonna be your key to the tower,” Mr. Stark seemed like he was calming down, although the glower hadn’t faded from his face. “If you want to come by, press the button once. That’ll let us know you’re on your way, but you still can’t get in without it. If you come by without pressing the button, we’ll assume that it was stolen from you.”

 

“Okay,” Peter agreed with a frown, fingering the button, but it seemed like Mr. Stark wasn’t listening to him.

 

“Tap it twice if you need our help with something. Three times is an emergency signal. Same in reverse: if you hear it beep once, we want you to come to the tower, no urgency. Twice means we need _your_ help.” That idea blew Peter away almost completely. “Three times means there’s an emergency. You got that?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter said again, sounding a little dazed.

 

“Sixty-five pounds of pressure,” The inventor told him dryly, and Peter managed to recover enough to snicker.

 

“You okay, kid?” Clint prompted him from across the table, and Peter nodded quickly.

 

“I just— this is so cool, you guys. You have no idea. I-I can’t even— I can’t believe— just… wow. I’m so honored. Thank you so much.”

 

“This doesn’t mean we’re at your beck and call,” Natasha informed him. “We don’t want you using this flippantly. You understand that, right?”

 

“Definitely!” Peter was nodding again, even more vehemently this time, and he thought he saw the Falcon’s lips quirk upwards. “I get it. Not a toy, and all that. For sure. I’ll only use it if I need to, I promise.”

 

“Good,” Captain Rogers nodded approvingly. “Now I think we should get down to the actual briefing. Tony, please have a seat.”

 

Mr. Stark obeyed, but Peter could hear him mumbling about “taking orders in _my tower_ ,” which made Peter grin before turning to look at the captain.

 

“Since your last visit, Spider-Man, we’ve had several encounters with a new element. The agents over at SHIELD are calling him the Chameleon.”

 

“Makes sense,” Sam Wilson finally spoke up. “He can turn into anyone, right?”

 

“Not exactly,” Cap answered, a slight frown on his face. “He has special equipment that allows him to take on the appearance of anyone, within certain parameters.” Peter listened raptly, already beginning to grasp the implications of a power like that. “We briefly captured him after he tried infiltrating the tower disguised as you,” He was looking at Peter. “But he...managed to escape.”

 

“How?” That was the Winter Soldier. His voice wasn’t as low and gravelly as Peter would have expected; he sounded like a normal guy.

 

Natasha was the one to answer. “It seems like his belt is able to gather information about someone in his line of sight, and he can use that to generate a disguise. His mask and clothing can change accordingly. He waltzed right out, wearing Tony’s face and his favorite Armani suit.”

 

“I don’t wear Armani,”

 

“Not the point.”

 

“The Chameleon is good,” Dr. Banner interrupted, presumably to put a stop to the bickering. “In addition to the disguises, he can mimic the voice and mannerisms of his assumed identities almost perfectly.”

 

“Seriously?” Peter flinched, fingers gripping tighter. “How did you know it wasn’t me, then?”

 

“He was acting all cocky— the way you do on the streets.” Natasha shot him a glance, lips turned up slightly. “He didn’t know how nervous and awkward you act around us.”

 

“Hey,” Peter objected, but Cap cut back in.

 

“We miscalculated, taking him in to SHIELD,” He admitted. “No knowing what he could do, of course we assumed it would be the best course of action.” Peter noticed that Mr. Stark looked guilty, while Natasha’s expression flattened into neutrality. He assumed they had been the ones to make the call. “He’s...acquired more faces. Some high ranking ones.”

 

“Oh, crap,” Peter blinked. “That’s...not ideal.”

 

“No kidding,” Clint agreed with a snort. “Especially considering the guy’s an ex-KGB spy.”

 

“Geeze,” Peter dropped his head back with a groan. “This just keeps getting better, huh?” He looked around the table. “So what’s his play? What’s he trying to accomplish?” There was a shared look of discomfort around the table.

 

“We’re not sure, yet,” Captain Rogers answered, and Peter felt a chill run through him at the admission. “It’s difficult to track his movements. That’s why we’ve had to become so vigilant with security around the tower.” Peter nodded his understanding and the soldier continued. “We were _hoping_ that you might know something. Do you remember encountering him? Someone who may have struck you as odd. There would have been a flash of light as his computer processed your appearance.

 

Peter’s thoughts immediately turned to the man from last month: the man who’d thrust him back into his memories. Was that him? No— the Chameleon sounded like someone else.

 

Or maybe multiple other people, Peter thought suddenly, eyes widening with realization. He remembered the night he had first encountered the man’s henchmen, out by Little Neck. Before that there had been a string of strangely easy-to-fight crimes, and each of the victims had set off his spidey-sense in a low pitched but troubling way.

 

“There was a woman,” he remembered. “She took a picture of me. The flash on the camera was...really bright, but then she deleted it. I got a really weird vibe from her. I think...I think I ran into the Chameleon at least three times in one night. Maybe more.” The faces around him looked grim. “I just...they seemed normal, other than the fact that they were really throwing me for a loop. I don’t think I would even remember what they looked like.” He’d stopped so many muggings by this point that the victims tended to blend together.

 

“What do you mean, they threw you for a loop?” Natasha prompted, and Peter shrugged.

 

“Oh— I just mean that they set off my spidey-sense.” There were blank looks all around, so Peter explained. “It’s um, like a sixth sense, I guess? It warns me about danger. But they all seemed so nice, and nobody was trying to attack me or anything, so I just dealt with them as fast as possible and beat it.”

 

“A danger sense,” Natasha murmured from next to him, looking intrigued. “That explains a lot, actually.”

 

“So some of these people struck you as dangerous,” Captain Rogers was nodding slowly. “They certainly _could_ have been the Chameleon.” He paused thoughtfully, then focused his attention back on Peter. “We’d like to ask you to keep an eye out. If someone rubs you wrong, like he did before, keep an eye on him. Give us a call.”

 

“Two taps?”

 

“Right,” Natasha spoke up again. “But _do not_ let him get his hands on you. He’s not a particularly skilled fighter, comparatively, but he could still do some damage. Knives, poisons, bullets, they all still work on you, right? So stay away from him.”

 

“Web him up from a distance,” Peter confirmed. “Watch out for guns, two taps. Anything else?”

 

“If you encounter any of us outside the tower,” That was Mr. Wilson speaking up. Wow, _the Falcon_ was talking to him. “Be careful, especially if someone’s solo.”

 

“Oops,” Peter looked chagrined, shooting a glance at Natasha. “I guess I kinda dropped the ball on that one already.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she shook her head, then gave him a pointed look. “But if we approach you in groups less than three outside the tower, be on your guard. Someone might be a fake.”

 

“Geeze,” Peter leaned back in his seat. “This is… a lot.”

 

“It’s only temporary, kid,” Clint assured him, hands propping behind his head. Peter suspected that he was not-so-subtly flexing. Ever since Peter had first demonstrated his strength months ago, Clint seemed to really want him to notice that he’d been working out more. Peter made a point never to mention it. “As soon as we catch this guy, we can all go back to normal.”

 

“Normal,” Peter repeated, grinning under the mask. “I _really_ don’t think that applies to basically anything any of us do.”

 

“You might not be wrong about that,” Dr. Banner agreed, expression easing enough that Peter felt a surge of pride. It seemed like the doctor spent the majority of his time melancholy or anxious; it was always satisfying to pull a smile out of him. “Normal for us, then.”

 

“Just the usual, run-of-the-mill villains who can’t impersonate our friends,” Cap agreed with a wry grin.

 

“And Christmas,” Peter offered, and there was a general lightening of the mood. There was a moment where Peter sensed that Cap wanted to put them back on track, but he visibly let it go. He must have passed on all the information he had planned to, so he was willing to let Peter change the subject.

 

“The most wonderful time of the year,” Clint agreed, fiddling absently with one hearing aid. “You got plans, Spidey? You could drop by and _bug_ us if you wanted to.” Clint seemed to enjoy making spider puns almost as much as Peter did.

 

_Almost._

 

“Spiders aren’t bugs,” Peter corrected him before continuing. “I do have plans, but I’ll definitely _swing by_. I have to drop off your presents, after all.”

 

“Oh my god!” Mr. Stark exclaimed suddenly, interrupting Clint’s next bug pun. “We are not starting this again. I’m putting my foot down.” He stood abruptly. “I’ll be in the lab. Some of us have work to do in between world-ending disasters. Kid,” He looked at Peter, then. “Come and see me before you leave, yeah?” He didn’t wait for a response, instead stalking back out the door. Peter cringed. He definitely still seemed angry.

 

“Don’t let him bother you,” Dr. Banner suggested. “He was just worried. When the Chameleon showed up here in your outfit, he assumed the worst, especially when you didn’t show up to the tower for a while.”

 

“You should have seen his face when he heard that you’d been sighted fighting crime around the city a few days later,” The Falcon volunteered, and that drew Peter’s attention. He bit his lip, fidgeting as he tried to decide whether to get excited about Mr. Stark missing him or the fact that the Falcon was talking to him again.

 

He had all the time in the world to be thrilled about his and Mr. Stark’s developing friendship, he decided, and stood up, hand jerking over the table to where the Falcon sat.

 

“It is seriously so great to meet you,” he blurted. “I’ve heard a lot about you, I mean, duh, everyone knows about you, you’re a superhero, that’s a pretty big deal, I just never thought that we’d be, you know, sitting in the same room? For a briefing. Or anything, actually.” Sam Wilson stared at him, surprised, for several moments, before shooting a glance at Natasha. The look on his face implied that he’d, somehow, known something like this was coming. He finally took Peter’s hand, giving it a firm shake.

 

“Good to meet you, too, kid,” Kid again? _Darn it._ “I heard about how you put Cap to shame a few months ago. Wish I could’ve been there to see it.” Peter flushed with pleasure under his mask.

 

“Thanks! It was nothing, though,” he tried to defer, but that just made the Winter Soldier laugh and Cap cringed, looking abashed. “No! Not that— that’s not what I— oh _shoot_ , I’m sorry, Cap—” He tried to collect himself hastily, then sucked in a deep breath, collecting himself. “Anyway, you, too, Mr. Winter Soldier! You’re like, _so famous—”_

 

“Don’t call me that,” The man interrupted him harshly, but when Peter looked him in the face, he saw a pained expression there. “That’s not my name.”

 

“Oh,” He swallowed and glanced around. The tension in the air was nothing compared to what showed on the faces of the Avengers. It was clear that he’d really stuck his foot in it, this time. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… what _is_ your name?” The man stared at the table for several moments with the kind of intensity that Peter would normally expect to be accompanied by a flare of his spidey-senses, but there was nothing.

 

“James,” He answered finally. “James Barnes.”

 

“I’m sorry, James,” Peter said sincerely, trying not to be unnerved by the way Cap was staring him down from the far end of the table. “I won’t… it won’t happen again. Promise. It’s really great to meet you.” He offered his hand to the man and after another short pause, the man shook it firmly.

 

“You, too, Spider-Man,” he agreed gruffly before standing and striding from the room without another comment. Peter looked helplessly at Cap, who gave him a reassuring, if sad, smile.

 

“It’s alright, Spider-Man,” he promised, standing, too. “I’ll go talk to him.” He followed quickly after James. An awkward silence fell over the room before Peter dropped into his seat and let his head fall to the table.

 

“Oh my god,” he groaned. “I messed that up so bad.” Natasha gave him a what he assumed must be a sympathetic pat on the back.

 

“Yeah,” she then agreed heartlessly. “You really did.”

 

“It’s not that bad,” Dr. Banner interjected. “He’ll forgive you. He knows you didn’t mean anything by it. Probably.”

 

“Thanks, Doc,” Peter grimaced, face smushed against the table. “I feel a lot better, now.”

 

“It wasn’t a great first impression,” Sam agreed from across the table.

 

“And I thought that _our_ first meeting was bad. He was covered in slime, couldn’t stay on his feet,” Peter heard Clint informing the other hero. The teen let out another long, humiliated sound, throwing himself backwards in his chair, head hanging back.

 

“You are all _terrible_ at comforting a guy,” Peter rebuked them half-heartedly. “I’m going to see Mr. Stark.” He flipped backwards out of his chair, trying to salvage at least a little of this first meeting with the Falcon, and grumbled his way out of the room.

 

Despite half expecting to see the others still lingering in the hallway outside, it was deserted when he emerged. That was… probably for the best. He’d have to make it up to James later. He trudged his way to the elevator, one finger circling the new tech under his mask. It was flat enough that it didn’t really disturb the silhouette of the suit, he thought, but bulky enough that he wouldn’t forget about it. He wondered if Mr. Stark had kept it outside his ear on purpose. He was grateful for that; he would have hated to lose the use of one of his ears to the mostly-silent device.

 

“Hey, JARVIS, could you take me to Mr. Stark, please?”

 

“Of course, Spider-Man,” JARVIS agreed, shutting the elevator doors behind him as Peter entered. Peter didn’t have much time to wonder what Mr. Stark might want to talk to him about; the elevators here were faster than any he’d encountered elsewhere in New York, and the doors opened on the lab moments later.

 

“About time,” he could hear Mr. Stark griping from inside. “Get in here, Skippy!” Peter scurried out of the elevator, eyes locking onto Mr. Stark’s cross face,

 

“Hey,” Peter rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling awkward. “What’s up?”

 

“Come here,” Mr. Stark waved him over and Peter obeyed, hands fidgeting with the edges of his scarf. “Take this.” He held out his hand and Peter could see a small square device in it. He noticed that Mr. Stark looked nervous, as if worried that he might refuse. “It’s a tracker.”

 

Peter recoiled automatically. That explained _that_.

 

“No, hold on!” Mr. Stark demanded, and Peter shot him a resentful look. It was completely wasted, hidden behind the mask. “I’m not saying you have to bring it home with you. God, I get it, okay? You don’t want us to know who you are. That’s _fine_ . I know you would never have accepted the comm if it had a tracker. But just...keep this with you when you’re in the suit, would you? Throw it on a damn roof somewhere when you’re not out, I don’t care, just— when you’re Spider-Man, _hold onto it._ The comm only does so much. Without a tracker, you can send an S.O.S. all you want, but we won’t know where you are. It might take us too long to find you.” He gritted his teeth, staring down at the workbench, one hand lying open, with the tracker still on the palm, the other fisted tightly. “I won’t track you unless you send out the emergency signal, I _swear_.”

 

Peter was quiet, staring at the man. He was something of a trickster— not in a big way, but Peter knew that he would lie and manipulate to get what he wanted. He didn’t think that this was one of those times.

 

“This isn’t playtime, Spidey,” He continued, eyes flashing up to Peter’s. “This isn’t amateur hour. I like you, kid, you’ve got spunk, moxy, what the hell ever kitschy phrase you want to use. But the fact of the matter is, you’re still new to this. You’ve been out on the streets, what, six, seven months? That’s not enough _time_ to be prepared for everything. And you need to trust us to help you if you need it. You need to _trust me,_ kid.”

 

Peter kept his gaze fixed on Mr. Stark’s face, taking in his uneven breathing, the angry flush in his cheeks, the way his eyes flicked back and forth between the goggles of Peter’s mask as if he were trying to see past it in order to gauge Peter’s own reaction.

 

After what felt like a long time, Peter reached down and plucked the device from Mr. Stark’s hand. “I’m not bringing it to my house,” Peter said, slipping one of his web cartridges off of his belt and tucking the device behind it. He’d work out something more permanent later.

 

“I don’t give a shit,” Mr. Stark told him, looking relieved. He ruffled the top of Peter’s mask, then flicked him on the forehead. “You twerp.” Peter snickered, jostling Mr. Stark with his shoulder.

 

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said as an apology, but Mr. Stark brushed him off.

 

“I wasn’t worried.”

 

Peter laughed again, tapping the cartridge that the tracker was now hidden behind. “ _Sure_ , Mr. Stark. Whatever you say.”

 

“Would you get out of my _space_ , Spider-Kid?” Mr. Stark demanded, giving him a firm shove on the shoulder. “If you’re going to hang around here, do some work or something. You’re crowding me.” Peter beamed at him, and Mr. Stark, despite not being able to see his face, seemed to know.

 

—-

 

“Peter!” Gwen threw her arms around him as soon as she opened the door. “Merry Christmas!” Peter hugged her back tightly, noticing her dad watching from the livingroom. Eesh.

 

“Merry Christmas Eve,” he corrected, beaming as he pulled back, and she let him in. “Hi, Captain Stacy,” he greeted him, and the older man gave a nod back

 

“Merry Christmas Eve, Peter,” he said from where he sat. Peter flashed him a grin and Mr. Stacy smiled dryly back. He seemed to like Peter well enough, Peter thought, but he supposed it was to be expected that he was wary of the teenage boy that his only daughter was dating. Apparently that was normal. If Peter were someone else, the open-door-only rule might have been necessary.

 

“What’s that?” Gwen caught his attention again and he saw her looking at the brightly colored packages in his hand.

 

“Oh— this is for you.” He held them out to her shyly and she gasped, shooting him an indignant look.

 

“Peter!” She chastised him, her cheeks flushing. “You should have told me you were getting two, so I could have gotten _you_ two. You jerk.” She hugged him again anyway and Peter didn’t argue. It wasn’t as if he could tell her that she’d already given him one gift last month.

 

“The enigmatic Parker ways,” Peter replied, handing her the gifts as they separated again. “Always expect us to one-up you on gift-giving.” Gwen shot him another glare, but the effect was ruined by the smile she was fighting to keep off her face.

 

“Sure, Peter. But just you wait until your birthday. You’ll be regretting this _then._ ”

 

“Don’t start a fight you can’t finish, Gwen,” Peter warned her, following as she turned to head down the hall to her bedroom. “I’ll defeat you, I swear.”

 

“We’ll see,” Gwen retorted, opening the door.

 

“Leave it open,” Captain Stacy called.

 

“Yes, sir,” Both teens answered in unison, and shared a grin.

 

“Here’s yours,” Gwen hurried over to the desk and picked up a wrapped present. Peter noticed that the paper matched the wrapping on the hat and scarf she had given him and he smiled at the memory, depositing his backpack next to the desk chair before accepting it.

 

“Thanks,” he said earnestly, giving it a minute shake, listening to it.

 

“Don’t do that!” Gwen scolded. “It’s fragile.” Peter grinned bashfully and his girlfriend continued. “We should open them since we won’t see each other tomorrow.”

 

“Definitely,” Peter agreed, taking a seat in the chair as Gwen perched on the edge of her bed. “You first.” Gwen bit her lip, trying to suppress a grin.

 

“Okay,” she agreed, setting the larger one aside as she turned her attention to the smaller of the two. She tore the paper open, revealing a logo he’d coerced Gwen’s friend MJ into sketching for him. It was stamped onto a black t-shirt. Her eyes lit up as she lifted it out of the paper. “The Mary Janes,” she read aloud, expression bright. “Peter, did you make this?” She looked over to find him beaming at her.

 

“Yeah,” He ran a hand through his hair. “I know you guys aren’t technically a band _yet_ , but I know you’ll find a killer guitar player and a fantastic bassist, and then you’re gonna be famous someday. So consider this your first merchandise.”

 

“Peter, this is _so cool_ ,” She enthused, standing quickly. “I’m going to put it on right now, I’ll be right back.” She stepped into the bathroom attached to her bedroom and swung the door shut. Peter waited patiently for the few moments it took her to change, and he beamed when she came out sporting the shirt he’d made for her. “I love it! Thank you.” She strode over and planted a kiss on his cheek, sending a rush of warmth through him.

 

“Open the other one,” Peter urged, and Gwen smiled, reaching up, but he beat her to it, tucking her hair behind her ear.

 

Eat it, Zombieland.

 

Gwen ducked her head, blushing, and spun back to the bed to scoop up the second package. Peter hesitantly followed her over, sitting right next to her. He wanted to be close enough to watch her clearly. She gave him a look, fingers running around the edges of the package before ripping the paper away.

 

Inside was a photo album that Gwen gaped at. She opened it without hesitation to discover that it was full of photographs Peter had taken of them. “Pete,” she breathed, flipping slowly through pictures of them holding hands, pressing their foreheads together, smiling up at the camera together. He’d compiled every picture of the two of them that he had, but…

 

“There’s still plenty of room,” he said as she hit the empty pages. “For more. You know. As we take them.”

 

“Pete, this is so great,” She turned and this time she was kissing him for real. They fell quiet, slowly trading kisses back and forth as Peter thought of the future they might have together.

 

They were fifteen. He knew that. It was a little early to plan for the future, but he couldn’t help himself.

 

“Merry Christmas,” Peter ventured eventually, voice soft in a way that would have made him feel dumb if it didn’t bring the prettiest smile in the world to Gwen’s face.

 

“Thank you, Peter.” She gave him one more lingering kiss before snatching the last box off the chair he’d abandoned, pressing it into his hands. “Open yours,” she urged, leaning back. “It’s, ah,” She looked down, suddenly looking slightly unhappy. “It’s not as good as what you gave me,” she admitted, and Peter scoffed.

 

“We’ll see about that,” he said confidently, carefully opening the paper without ripping it. Inside, still in the box, was a camera. Peter stopped, silently holding it in his hands. “This is… Gwen. This is a camera. Like, an actual one. Like, a _really good_ one.” He couldn’t imagine that this had cost her less than four hundred dollars. He looked at her quickly, eyes wide. “Gwen, I can’t take this— this thing is— it’s an actual— _Gwen_ ,” His voice rose sharply in pitch and he noticed an expression of pride growing on her face.

 

“You’re taking it,” She insisted smugly. “You’re a real photographer, so you deserve a real camera. Think of how good the photos in the album are going to look.” She pet the front cover of her second gift, grinning, and Peter gingerly set the camera to the side in order to fling his arms around Gwen.

 

“You’re seriously the best,” he breathed, burying his face into her neck. “Oh my god, Gwen.” She hugged him back, the fingers of one hand tangling into his hair. “I can’t ever thank you enough for this.”

 

“You can try,” She teased, leaning against him, and he laughed into her shoulder.

 

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, and she pressed her lips to the side of his head. “Thanks, Gwen.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Peter.”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

“Mm.” He gave her the gentlest squeeze he could manage and was rewarded with a giggle from his girlfriend. “You’re an angel, Gwen. Beyonce can see your halo. You’re like, a seraph.”

 

“And you’re a cherub,” she teased him, letting go and leaning away from him. He was reluctant to let her go, but he let his arms fall to his sides anyway, a wide grin over his face as he picked his camera back up. “Do you mind if I—”

 

“Not if you don’t,” Gwen retorted, opening the photo album again and starting to look through the pictures more closely. Despite the fact that they’d only been together for three months, Peter had an itchy camera finger, so there were plenty to go through. Peter turned his attention to the camera, and he was delighted to find that Gwen had already loaded it with batteries and an SD card. She was so awesome. She knew how much he’d want to get started with it. He fiddled with it, exploring the settings, looking at the room through the lense, before finally snapping a picture of Gwen. Expression soft, hair falling forward on the far side of her face, bent over the book in her lap. She was probably the most photogenic person he knew, he thought enviously as she turned to look at him. She was always the perfect subject.

 

“Candids, Peter?” She said, voice laced with false disapproval. “That’s the first thing you’re going to take with your new camera? Why not some artsy skyline photos, or something of Spider-Man?” She gestured to the fire escape outside her window, as if Spider-Man were right outside striking a pose.

 

“It’s good luck for the first picture to be of something you love,” Peter told her, hiding his face behind the camera that was still aimed her way. He managed to snap a picture of the realization on her face, followed by the red staining her cheeks. He stayed quick on the trigger, then, practically capturing a stop motion of her bashfully ducking her head, tucking the hair back behind her ear.

 

“Give it to me,” She demanded, one hand out before she even looked up, and Peter gingerly placed the camera on her palm and she lifted it, snapping a photograph of him, too. “It probably counts,” She decided, peeking over the camera at him. “Since it’s the first picture _I_ took on it.” She handed it back, and they were both looking shyly at each other, the knowledge settling between them, heavy and warm.

 

“I could use all the luck I can get,” Peter agreed. “The Parker luck is infamous, after all.” Gwen snorted, bumping her shoulder against his as the mood lightened.

 

“Well, I’m happy to help out where I can,” She said, reluctantly setting her photo album aside. He could tell by the smile on her face that although she was changing the topic, their words were still on her mind. They clung to his, too. “You brought your computer, right? We probably ought to get some work done on our papers.”

 

“I still can’t approve of giving out research papers over winter break,” Peter sighed, standing up and going back to the desk. He carefully settled the camera back into the protective box, padded with foam, and set it on the flat surface where it would be safe.

 

“What are you writing it on?” Gwen asked, accepting her laptop from him as he passed it over from the desk.

 

“The correlation between STEM program growth and the increasing number of scientifically affiliated superheroes,” Peter answered absently, and Gwen looked over at him, a surprised laugh on her lips.

 

“What?”

 

“Have you noticed? There’s been a _huge_ jump in STEM academics in the past few years, and I think it has to do with all the superheroes popping out of nowhere. Think about it— Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Stephen Strange, Henry Pym, Charles Xavier, oh, Scott Lang— _kind of_ —”

 

“I get it,” Gwen interrupted with a grin, settling herself against the headboard. “You’re right. That’s… a pretty heavy dose of scientific representation. If I weren’t already interested in science, I might be, now.” Peter beamed back, shrugging as he opened his computer and turned towards it.

 

“So what are you writing about?”

 

“How nanotechnology can be used to prevent and cure chronic disease,” Gwen answered with a shrug. “It feels like kind of a phone-in, but… I don’t _really_ want to spend all of winter break on this,” she admitted, a wry smirk on her face. Peter snickered, tapping at his keyboard as he took notes on the paper he intended to write.

 

“No way, that’s really cool,” he argued, shooting her a glance. “Is that something you’d be interested in doing, in the future? Nanotech?” Gwen shrugged again, her nose wrinkling.

 

“Maybe. I guess my vision of the future isn’t very specific, yet. I just know I want to major in biochemistry.”

 

“Yeah, I get that,” Peter agreed. “I still haven’t even picked a major. I can’t choose between biochemistry, biophysics, or maybe something to do with mechanical engineering? I don’t know. It’s hard. I might double major or something.”

 

“We have time,” Gwen assured him, turning her own attention to her paper.

 

“One more year,” Peter agreed. “Before we need to start sending out applications.”

 

“All of this year _and_ next,” Gwen argued. “We don’t have to start sending them out until senior year.”

 

“I guess.” Peter wanted to get himself out there a little earlier, but he didn’t try to argue the point. It was hard to explain to Gwen: money wasn’t a problem for her family. She would be able to pay admission wherever she got accepted. Peter needed to plan a little more thoroughly than that.

 

A quiet fell over them for a while, broken only by the occasional comment from one or the other. This was something that Peter had been missing over the past month, he found himself thinking. Slow afternoons spent with Gwen, just focusing on homework. It was hard to forget about all the things that were going on, sometimes, but with Gwen, he could just remember, for a little while, that he was fifteen. He deserved a little time with his girlfriend. That was fine, right?

 

At five o’clock, Peter saved his work and shut down his computer. “I should probably get going,” he said, and Gwen shot him a disappointed look.

 

“Okay,” She agreed, swinging her legs down off the bed and standing up. “Are you spending Christmas with Aunt May?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter smiled, packing his bag back up. He discretely nestled his camera in his suit, and he would make sure that it was wrapped in his clothes once he changed. “We’re actually planning on spending the next week sequestered in the apartment with all the gingerbread cookies, eggnog, and turkey one can eat. Don’t be surprised if I show back up at school looking like a basketball.”

 

“Call me tomorrow,” She instructed him, and Peter nodded, pulling out his phone. “So I know that you didn’t explode.”

 

“I’ll set a reminder right now. I don’t want Aunt May to lull me to sleep with turkey.” She leaned over to read what he was typing and snorted, a hand clapping over her mouth.

 

“Do you have me set in your phone as _Gwen in Black II?”_

 

“Yeah, like Men In Black? But the second one.”

 

“The second one is _terrible_ ,” Gwen argued, still snickering behind her hand.

 

“No way,” Peter frowned at her, pulling his backpack on and holding his hand out for her to take. “The first one is a classic, sure. But the second one only compounded on all the incredibleness of the first.”

 

“It’s a good thing you’re leaving already,” Gwen said firmly, dragging him down the hall and to the door. “Or I’d kick you out. I’m walking Peter out,” she told her dad as she pulled the door open. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”

 

“Bye, Mr. Stacy!” Peter called, letting his girlfriend haul him out the front door without so much as a word of protest. “You’re lucky you’re so perfect, or I’d break up with you.”

 

“Oh, hush,” Gwen squeezed his hand. “You wouldn’t dare.”

 

“You’re right,” Peter admitted. “That decision would haunt me for the rest of my life.”Gwen shot him a fond glance over her shoulder, leading the way into the elevator. As the door slid shut, he watched her expression slowly shift into something more downtrodden. “Hey,” He shifted to lace their fingers together. “What’s the matter?”

 

There were a few moments of silence before she shot him a wary look that made his stomach drop. “You _will_ call tomorrow, right?”

 

“Of course I will,” Peter replied, head tilting to the side as he studied her. Where was this coming from. “Why wouldn’t I?” She sighed, shifting from one foot to the other.

 

“We shouldn’t talk about this now,” She said, glancing away. “It’s Christmas Eve. We should just be happy.” The elevator doors opened onto the lobby and she led the way out, but he caught up, never letting go of her hand.

 

“No, come on,” he urged, worried about the sudden shift in the mood. “Tell me what’s up. Did I do something wrong?”

 

“No!” Gwen exclaimed, letting him crowd into the same compartment of the revolving door as her. “No.” A pause, then she ducked her head. “It’s just…” They stepped out into the cold together and Peter pulled her out of the way of the door, then caught her other hand, too.

 

“You can tell me anything,” Peter insisted. “Especially if I did something wrong. I want to fix it. Please, Gwen, I don’t want you to feel bad about something I did over _Christmas_.”

 

“I just worry about you,” She blurted. “You’ve been weird lately. You don’t want to hang out as much, and even when we do make plans, you flake out. You don’t call me anymore and you basically only text after three in the morning.” She looked up at him, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m worried.”

 

Crap.

 

“Gwen, I’m so sorry,” he felt the shame rising in him. “I didn’t… if I’d known this was bothering you—“ What? He would have stopped being Spider-Man? Not likely. What could he say to her? “I’m really sorry. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, I promise. I’m just… super busy with class and homework and everything.”

 

“Peter, we’re in most of the same classes,” she told him, frustration coloring her tone. “I know how much homework we have, and I know how fast you can blow through it.” Her voice softened. “Peter, where do you _go_? Why don’t you answer your phone?”

 

He thought of the mask in his backpack. He thought of the hat and scarf tucked inside it. Maybe he should tell her, he thought suddenly. He loved her. He had told her that. So would it be fair to keep this secret from her?

 

But he loved Aunt May, too, he thought, and he would _never_ tell _her_ about this.

 

That was different, he found himself arguing. Aunt May would _freak_. Gwen— Gwen loved Spider-Man. She supported him. She was grateful to him. If she found out that Peter was the vigilante… what would she say?

 

She would keep his secret. He was fairly certain of that. But what if someone connected her to Spider-Man? What if they decided to go after her to get to him?

 

“Gwen,” his voice dropped to a near whisper and he pulled her close, touching his forehead against hers. “Gwen.”

 

“Peter, please tell me what’s going on,” She whispered back, and he felt a little of his resolve break.

 

Being Spider-Man was so amazing. Helping people was the most amazing feeling in the world. Web slinging was the most fun he’d ever had. The adrenaline rush he practically lived on while in the suit was more thrilling than anything else. He talked about those things with the Avengers. They understood. They were there for him.

 

Being Peter was important, too, despite the significantly lower risk. He loved the feeling of acing a test, or answering a question right in class. Spending time with Aunt May, watching movies, or doing a puzzle, or helping around the house— it made him feel warm and safe and loved. And being around Gwen… being in love was easily as fulfilling as stopping a purse snatcher. And he could talk about those thing with Gwen and Aunt May.

 

But he couldn’t talk to _anyone_ about both parts of his life. There was no one in the world who he could sit down and talk to about his homework _and_ his frustration over his inability to track down Dr. Octavius.

 

It was lonelier than it had any right to be, as far as Peter was concerned.

 

“Peter.” The whispered plea broke him out of his thoughts and he opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, he heard a very soft beep from inside his backpack. Just one. The Avengers were calling him, he realized. They wanted to see him.

 

“Gwen,” He said again, but this time it was a sigh. “I… I need to— to think about this. I want to tell you everything. I really do. But I— there are things about me that I’ve never told anybody. And I think I want to tell you,” He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the growing pressure in his chest. It didn’t feel good, brushing her off like this. “But I don’t think I’m ready yet. Can you be patient for me? Just for a little while longer?” He listened for a response, hoping desperately that she wouldn’t break up with him on the spot.

 

“Okay,” she finally breathed. “Okay. But I want to hear all about… _whatever it is_ next time I see you. Okay? Promise me.”

 

“I promise,” Peter agreed, shoulders slumping with relief. He was going to tell her. She was giving him time to prepare. “Try not to worry about it so much though, okay? I promise it’s nothing bad. Um. Nothing… _too_ bad, anyway.”

 

“Peter,” she scolded him, and he tried not to notice the hurt behind her dry, playful tone. “That does _not_ make me feel better.”

 

“Sorry, Gwendy,” He let go of one of her hands, opening his eyes to watch hers as he cupped her cheek. She was cold. “I think— I think it’s something that will make you happy? I hope so, anyway. Just give me a little more time. I just need— soon, Gwendy, I promise.” She nodded, eyes downcast, and he sighed again before leaning in to kiss her.

 

She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t reciprocate, either, so Peter released her before long, stepping back. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and she forced a smile.

 

“It’s okay,” she shrugged, hands tucking underneath her arms. She was still in the tee, he noticed. She must be freezing.

 

“Go on inside,” he smiled faintly back. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, and next time I see you… I’ll tell you everything.” She nodded, turning to head back into the building. “I love you, Gwen,” he called after her, and she paused, turning to look back as her hand landed on the rail in the door.

 

“I love you, Peter,” she replied, and it sounded like a promise. Then she turned and jogged back to the elevator, disappearing inside.

 

That felt _terrible._ Peter turned and slumped away from the building, hands shoved deep in his pockets. But hey, he thought, trying to cheer himself up. He could go to Avenger’s tower tonight. Seeing the other heroes would perk him up, he was sure. His bag was heavy with gifts for them, and he was eager to hand them out. He felt like Santa Claus.

 

He ducked into an alley, that thought on his mind as he _hastily_ changed into his suit, comm, hat, and scarf safely in place. They didn’t really do much to keep his body warm in these temperatures, but they certainly made him happier.

 

Santa Claus, he thought again, a grin forming on his face as he made a sack of webbing. He used his shirt to pad the inside and keep the gifts from sticking before piling everything carefully inside. He was sure that his strength would be sufficient to remove them, obviously, but the paper would probably rip, which would suck. He wasn’t great at wrapping gifts, so making them presentable had taken a while.

 

“Away we go,” Peter announced cheerfully, sticking the open end of the sack to his shoulder so that it would look typically Santa even as he used both hands to shoot webs, throwing himself into the air. “Ho ho ho!” That felt cheesy even to him, but he grinned behind his mask anyway. This was pretty awesome.

 

A quick pitstop by Queens Center Mall to pick up his tracker from the roof— and a Santa hat from inside— and he was on his way to Manhattan. Remembering the rules, he tapped his comm once to let the Avengers know he was on the way. _So cool._

 

He was getting faster with his webs, Peter noticed with pleasure. It only took him about fifteen minutes to reach the tower.

 

Instead of entering through the lobby, Peter threw himself as high as he could against the building, then began to climb. If he was going to be Santa Claus, he had to do this _right_. He just hoped that no one told the Avengers that Spider-Man was climbing the building.

 

“Hey JARVIS!” Peter exclaimed, crawling up onto the platform he knew that many of the Avengers entered through after battles. _So, so cool._

 

“Merry Christmas, Spider-Man,” The AI responded, and Peter beamed, pulling the sack off his shoulder in order to hold it. More traditional that way, he felt.

 

“You didn’t tell anyone I was here yet, did you?” He asked hopefully, but his hopes were dashed immediately.

 

“I have informed Ms. Romanoff of your arrival, as per usual,” JARVIS answered primly, and Peter sighed, but to his surprise, the system continued. “However, she was alone at the time. Is there someone else you wish me to inform?”

 

“No!” Peter exclaimed, shoulders rising. He still had a shot. “I want to surprise them. For Christmas. Is that okay? Can you help me?”

 

“I was told to inform the Avengers of any unusual activity,” JARVIS answered warily, and Peter grimaced.

 

“Could you run it by Nat for clearance or something?” He suggested. “I promise I’m not up to anything nefarious. I just want to, like, come in this way to surprise them.” There was a moment of silence, then JARVIS answered:

 

“Connecting you to Ms. Romanoff, please hold.” Oh.

 

“Spider-Man,” He heard Natasha’s voice. “Is that you?”

 

“It’s me,” he confirmed. “Um— proof. You want proof. Okay— last time I saw you was Wednesday afternoon, and you put me in a headlock because I forgot to beep and let you guys know I was coming and it was deeply embarrassing because you made me talk about the time I had to borrow your clothes.” Another pause, followed by a chuckle.

 

“Merry Christmas,” The door to the inside of the tower opened, then, and he saw Natasha hanging up the phone. “What are you up to? This isn’t your usual M.O. Pretty suspicious.” Despite her words, he could tell that she felt confident in his identity because she ushered him inside. “Don’t you have a coat or something to be wearing?” Peter grinned, rubbing at his arms as he passed her, letting the warmth of the tower soak into his bones.

 

“Nope. And let me tell you, swinging in this weather is _freezing._ ” She scoffed, slapping at the back of his head, but he didn’t complain.

 

“You’re going to end up with frostbite,” She scolded, crossing her arms as she shut the door with her hip. “You didn’t answer my first question.” Peter jostled the sack of presents on his back.

 

“I’m Spider Claus,” he announced cheerfully. “I know there isn’t any chimney or anything to go down, but I really want to surprise everyone anyway.”

 

“Oh, there’s a chimney,” Natasha corrected him, and Peter perked up immediately.

 

“No way!”

 

“Yes way. As long as you don’t mind getting burned to a crisp when you drop down onto Thor’s fire, which, by the way, is in celebration of some Norse holiday. Something about an eight-legged horse and a hunt? I didn’t pry.”

 

Peter stiffened, back straightening, and his voice came out as a squeak even despite the voice modulator. “ _Thor is here?”_

 

“Yep,” She agreed. “He just came back tonight. I think that’s why Clint pinged you.”

 

“Thor is here!” Peter was thrilled and horrified at the same time. “I didn’t get him a present!”

 

“Calm down,” Natasha smirked at him. “He doesn’t even celebrate Christmas.”

 

“That’s not the point,” Peter argued, fidgeting. “What do I do?” Natasha considered him for a few moments.

 

“Okay. Wait here, I have an idea. I’ll be right back. JARVIS, do me a favor and don’t tell anyone that Spider-Man’s here yet, even if they ask.”

 

“Yes, Ms. Romanoff,” JARVIS agreed, sounding somewhat amused, and Peter watched her disappear into the elevator.

 

Peter took the time he was alone to stare around the room, taking it in. It was some kind of airplane hangar, obviously, based on the fact that he was standing only about _ten yards from the freaking Quinjet._ Spider-Man let him experience the _coolest crap in the whole world_.

 

He was strongly tempted to check it out, but he just shifted back and forth from one foot to another near the door as he waited. He would probably get in trouble for examining one of the most expensive and dangerous planes ever created. Was it even technically a plane? He had heard rumors that it could go into space, but no one had any proof one way or another.

 

It had to have been at least ten minutes by the time the elevator reopened. “Finally,” he breathed, jogging across the hangar to the elevator. “I was starting to think that— _what is that_.”

 

“It’s a ham.” Peter gaped at the tray in Natasha’s hands: literally an entire cooked ham rested on it.

 

“Okay, yeah, I got that,” Peter managed to rip his eyes away from _where did she get a ham_ to her face. “But _why_?”

 

“It’s for Thor,” she answered casually. “From you. Technically, from Tony’s kitchen, but it’s fine. They intend to serve about thirty of them throughout the tower tomorrow for anyone who’s around. Technically Stark Industries is closed, but you know these scientists.” That kind of felt like a jab at himself, Dr. Banner, and Mr. Stark, but Peter let it go in favor of objecting to the gift idea.

 

“A _ham?_ You want me to give Thor, god of thunder, a _ham_ for Christmas.”

 

“Do you have any better ideas?” That shut Peter up. “Trust me. He’ll think it’s great. Now take it, this thing isn’t exactly light.” Peter stepped forward, accepting it from her with one hand.

 

Not to show off, he promised himself as her eyebrow rose. Just because his other hand was otherwise occupied with the other presents.

 

“Thanks, Nat,” Peter grinned sheepishly under the mask and he saw the assassin roll her eyes, but she didn’t seem upset.

 

“Too late for that, you ingrate,” She huffed, beckoning him to join her in the elevator. “Everyone’s up in the penthouse right now. JARVIS, take us there, would you? Spider-Man, this is the best we can do, I’m afraid, as far as surprise entrances go, but at least you managed to get in without having to knock on the front door to be let in.” Peter nodded, deciding not to let this get him down. After all, it was Christmas! Flexibility was kind of his specialty, he could roll with this punch.

 

The elevator doors slid open, then, and Peter squared his shoulders, back straightening as he raised his voice. “Ho, ho, ho!” He exclaimed, strolling out with a broad smile plastered under his mask. “Merry Christmas!” He saw the others turn to look at him from the long couch and he tried to pretend he wasn’t looking for Thor. “I brought presents!” He exclaimed, managing not to squeal when he spotted him.

 

“Spidey!” Clint was the first to greet him, raising a glass of what Peter had to assume was alcohol. “Merry Christmas, bud. Great timing. Is that a ham?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter managed to sound confident instead of equally confused. “Sorry it isn’t wrapped. This is for… Thor.” He watched the god’s eyebrows shoot up, and a wide, friendly smile spread over his face as he stood up, striding over.

 

“Spider-Man!” Thor exclaimed, his accented voice bright and excited. “We meet at last! I am Thor Odinson. I have heard tales of your valor from Heimdall.” That name was completely unfamiliar to Peter. “It is an honor to have you join us on this night of celebration!”

 

“Oh— thanks,” Peter grinned up at him, trying not to be intimidated. This guy was… colossal. “Here, Merry Christmas,” He handed the platter to Thor, who looked positively delighted. Score ten thousand for Natasha.

 

“And a Happy Jól!” Thor answered, taking it from him. “Friends, come, join me.” He crossed the room again to plunk the ham down in the middle of the coffee table in front of the couch. “What pairs more nicely with a good ale than a hearty meat?” He looked across to Peter, flashing him a grin. “Come, Spider-Man!” Peter grinned and jogged over to join them as Natasha disappeared into the kitchen.

 

“Hey, guys,” Peter greeted the others, relieved to discover that they were all here. He was surprised to see that most of them seemed to be nursing a drink. The scent of alcohol made his nose wrinkle. “Merry Christmas. Who wants a present?”

 

“Spider-Man, you really didn’t have to get us anything,” Steve protested, but Mr. Stark was already standing up.

 

“Oh, shut it, Cap, we already knew he was going to do this. Just get your soldier ass over to the tree and help me grab Spidey’s presents.” Peter blinked.

 

“You guys got me presents?” Mr. Stark flashed him a smirk.

 

“Go ahead and hand out what you’ve got, kid, and then we’ll give you yours, yeah?”

 

Peter grinned, dropping the sack on the floor by the coffee table and opening it up. “Okay, okay, first is— Dr. Banner.” He pulled out the box, wrapped in green, and tossed it to him. The man fumbled, but caught it, a flush spreading over his face.

 

“Wow, uh, thank you so much. This is so thoughtful.”

 

“You haven’t even opened it yet,” Peter rebuked him, and Dr. Banner smiled. As he started to open his gift— exotic teas that Peter had researched _extensively_ when he’d discovered the doctor’s tea addiction— Peter went back to digging around in the sack. “Here’s one for Clint.” Clint didn’t miss catching his gift. “Be _very careful_ with it,” Peter told him sternly. Clint managed to unwrap his gift before Peter even managed to turn back to the bag.

 

“Okay, trick arrow, clearly,” Clint was examining one from the stack in the bag. “Heavy, but balanced. What does it do?” Peter abandoned the gift-passing for a moment to hop the table to stand near him.

 

“Okay, so this side,” He tapped the weighted side, where the arrowhead would normally be. “Is a pressure sensor. When it smacks into something with enough force,” he touched the other end, between the fletching. “This side is full of web fluid, and it’s got a mechanism kind of like my web shooters.” He could see Clint’s eyes lighting up, so he hastily explained. “It’s not a web shooter! You can’t swing on it. But you _can_ zipline off it.” He tugged out the Teflon-based sheet, which Peter had carefully attached thick, firm leather handles to. “You’ll use this to slide down it— most other things will just stick, so nobody will able to follow you on it. It dissolves in twenty-five minutes.”

 

“Twenty-five?” Natasha repeated, reappearing from the kitchen. She’d brought a knife to cut the ham with, along with plates and utensils for everyone.  “I thought webbing lasted two hours?”

 

“Well,” Peter fidgeted. “I tinkered with the formula a little. Which, um, actually also applies,” He webbed the sack over to himself and pulled Nat’s gift out, offering it to her. “To yours. Neither of you are allowed to let Mr. Stark get ahold of your gifts or he’ll use it to make my web fluid for himself.” He grinned wryly under his mask as Clint flashed him a thumbs-up, and he turned his attention to Natasha, who was opening the small box. Suddenly he was rambling. “Okay, it’s… it’s kind of stupid, and, um, I hope you don’t hate it? Because it was actually a lot of work but I mean you aren’t exactly telling me your likes and interests and stuff— you were very clear on _not_ telling me those things, actually, if I remember right… but anyway, I made this for you, I hope you like it, and I’m really sorry if you don’t, uh, I can always get you… Nat?”

 

She was turning the gift over in her hands: it was a small, translucent black widow spider made out of webbing that Peter had molded meticulously. “You made this?” She prompted him, and he nodded.

 

“Yeah— yeah. With my old formula, back before I knew how to make it dissolve, so it won’t do that. What do you think?” A long silence, and Peter watched her swallow before she answered.

 

“It’s nice. Thank you.” Peter felt a little crestfallen, but then she turned her face towards him, just briefly, and he saw a tenderness in her eyes that he had never expected to find there.

 

“Us spiders got to stick together, right?” Peter relaxed, and she hooked an arm around his neck in something that could almost have been called not really a hug.

 

“Right. Now get a move on, kid, people are waiting,” She must have _let_ the emotion show in her voice, Peter decided, catching the grin Clint sent him.

 

“Yeah, okay.” He turned back to digging in his webbing bag as Cap and Mr. Start returned from the tree. It must have taken them a while to ferret out the gifts from the many underneath the monstrously large, ornately decorated fir. He glanced at them, a little shiver of excitement running through him. The Avengers had bought him Christmas presents. The Avengers _liked him_ enough to buy him Christmas presents. Wow.

 

“You guys really didn’t have to do that,” Peter flushed, watching as they set them down. “Cap, James,” He held out matching packages to each of them. “Um, I’m really sorry, I don’t really know that much about you, and, um, I didn’t have that much notice, so I just thought you might like what I got Cap, too? I don’t know. I hope you do.”

 

Peter stepped back, arms crossing self-consciously over his chest as he tried to watch both Cap and James at once. The sound of paper overwhelmed the soft conversation of the other Avengers as the two soldiers, Cap smiling, James straight-faced, unwrapped matching frames.

 

“This is—” Cap stared, surprised.

 

“The Howling Commandos,” James finished, and Peter watched both of them gape at the photos.

 

“I, um. I had them restored and colorized for you,” That was a lie: he did it himself. As much as he’d like to take credit for the work, it was more important that he not give them such a big clue as to one of his other rare skills, especially considering they’d already taken notice of Peter Parker.

 

“I didn’t know you could… do that,” Cap admitted, and Peter shifted, grinning nervously.

 

“Yeah. It’s, like, a lot of work, but you can do it. Do you, um, is it okay?” Cap looked up at him, then, then reached over to give his shoulder a firm squeeze.

 

“Thank you, Spider-Man,” he said seriously. “This means a lot to me.” Together they shot a look over at James, who was still just looking down at the photograph in his hands.

 

“Bucky?” Captain Rogers prompted, which seemed to snap his friend out of the reverie he had fallen into.

 

“I…” His voice was low and a little rough. “I had forgotten… what they looked like.” He stood, eyeing Peter contemplatively. “Thanks, kid.”

 

“Merry Christmas, James,” Peter watched as the soldier passed him by, squeezing his other shoulder before leaving the common room. A moment of silence passed before Peter turned, disappointed, to Cap. “I didn’t mean to upset him,” he said unhappily, but Steve just gave him a smile.

 

“Don’t worry,” he assured him. “Bucky just… needs a little time alone, sometimes. He’s not mad or anything. I’m sure he loves it as much as I do.” Peter nodded, somewhat relieved, and forced the cheer back into his tone while he waited for it to actually return.

 

“Okay! Um, this one’s for you, Mr. Wilson—”

 

“ _Ha!_ ” Came an interjection from Mr. Stark. “ _Mr. Wilson!_ ”

 

The Falcon looked surprised. “Kid, you didn’t have to get me anything,” he said, a slight frown on his face.

 

“Well, it isn’t much,” Peter admitted, forcing the package into his hands. “Really, it’s not easy to shop for you, since we don’t really know each other very well. But I hope you like it anyway.” He watched as Mr. Wilson tore into the packaging, revealing a cookbook. “I noticed that you cook a lot, and that you, um, have a sense of humor, so I thought this might be good.” Sam raised an eyebrow, a smile replacing the expression of displeasure.

 

“Yeah?” He flipped open to a page at random and read for a moment, then snorted. “Elephant Stew,” he read aloud. “Cut elephant into bite-size pieces, this will take about three weeks. Cook over kerosene at five hundred twenty-five degrees until tender, about five months. Add salt and pepper and cover with brown gravy. This will serve thirty-eight hundred people. If more are expected, add two rabbits. Do this only if absolutely necessary, as some people do not like to find hare in their stew.” He put a hand over his eyes, a grin spreading over his cheeks. “Oh my god.”

 

Peter grinned. “I figured you could just double the recipe if you wanted to feed the team,” He suggested, good mood returned, now.

 

“I guess I’ll do that,” Sam agreed wryly, dropping his hand to give Peter an amused look. “Thanks, kid.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Peter chirped back before looking in the bag. One more. “And this one’s for you, Mr. Stark.” He passed over the last gift, crumbling the webbing into a small ball and smacking it down onto the table.

 

“You shouldn’t have,” Mr. Stark drawled as he opened it up, but he paused as the paper came away. “A teddy bear?”

 

“That’s Spider-Bear to you,” Peter retorted, arms crossing as he grinned under his mask. “I know you got pretty lonely when I stopped coming around for a while, so I wanted to make sure you had somebody to hang out in the lab with you. And who’s better for that than your friendly neighborhood Teddy-Man?”

 

“Sentimental much?” Mr. Stark demanded, but he gave Peter that weird attempted hair ruffle anyway, and Peter suspected that the bear, fitted with his own tiny spider-suit, would find its way down to the lab eventually, even if Peter had to bring it there himself. “Here, I got you a little something, too.” He handed Peter a wrapped tube, and Peter beamed at him.

 

“Oh, man, thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter enthused, unwrapping it in that careful way of his. By the time he was tugging blueprints out of the plastic cylinder that was protecting them, Mr. Stark looked like he was about ready to rip away the paper himself. Peter unrolled the sheet, examining the schematic. “These are my web shooters?” He said, examining them carefully. “Is that a new web combination?”

 

“It might be,” Mr. Stark agreed noncommittally. “It might be web grenades. I know you’re all fidgety about letting me mess with your stuff, though, so I guess you’ll have to build it and find out.”

 

“Mr. Stark, that is _so cool._ Thank you!” He was vaguely aware that Thor was starting to serve out ham, but he was too busy reading over the blueprint to pay much attention.

 

“We can go down to the lab later on and take a look, if you want,” Mr. Stark offered, and despite his casual phrasing, Peter could tell he was hoping for a positive answer.

 

“Definitely,” Peter agreed quickly, carefully rolling the blueprints back up and returning them to their protective casing. “I can’t wait to get started on that! Thank you!”

 

“Mine next,” Clint said suddenly, waving a hand at Cap. “Give him mine next.” The captain obligingly handed over a hard package, which, unwrapped, was revealed to be an actual, real life Spider-Man action figure.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“I thought you’d like it,” Clint said smugly, accepting a plate of ham from Thor. “It’s the first one I’ve seen, and I knew I had to snatch it up for you.” It was terrible, Peter thought, staring at the cheaply made plastic. The paint was already peeling, and the eyes were looking different directions. It was _beautiful._

 

“This is the best, oh my god.” Peter was grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “I’m keeping this forever.”

 

“This one is from Bruce,” Tony announced, pushing another box into his hands, and Peter opened it to reveal a box of no doubt extravagantly priced coffees.

 

“Whoa,” He looked over at the tea still clutched in Dr. Banner’s hands. “We match!”

 

“I know how much coffee you drink,” Dr. Banner offered, his dry, flat voice warmer than usual. “So I figured you could have something special to treat yourself with every now and then.”

 

“Thank you,” Peter said seriously. “You have no idea how much this caffeine means to me.”

 

“Yes,” Dr. Banner matched his tone, but his eyes were crinkled. “I really do.” Peter was distracted, though, by Natasha throwing another package at his head.

 

“Hurry up and put this on,” Natasha scolded him, giving Peter a _definite_ clue as to what was inside. “I’m getting cold just looking at you.” Sure enough, opening the gift revealed one of the ugliest Christmas sweaters he’d ever seen, and he couldn’t keep the delight out of his voice.

 

“I will _cherish this always_ ,” He promised, teasing a smile to Nat’s lips. He tugged off his hat and scarf so he could pull it on over the top of his suit, pleased by the tacky reindeer and glittery snowmen plastered over the front of it, before replacing Gwen’s knitted presents. “How do I look?”

 

“Terrible.”

 

“So bad.”

 

“Spidey, you should burn that thing as soon as possible.”

 

“Thanks,” Peter beamed at them, and Cap’s voice drew his attention.

 

“One more.” He held out a thin, kind of floppy-looking package wrapped in plain brown paper. A traditionalist, clearly. “This one’s from me.”

 

“Couldn’t get used to the garishness of today’s Christmas paper, huh?” Peter asked, picking at the tape.

 

“I just think that what’s inside was bad enough that it didn’t need any more help,” came Cap’s nonplussed answer, but Peter nearly choked as the words on the front became visible.

 

“The Captain America Calendar, 2018,” Peter wheezed, staring at the photograph on the front. Captain America was _buried_ in puppies.

 

“I figured that since you were instrumental in its creation, I ought to make sure you had your own copy,” Cap smiled at him, and Peter wasn’t surprised to find a hint of mischief there. Peter had been delighted to find out that Cap really had a pretty cool sense of humor. Oh, no, accidentally bad pun. _Cool_ humor? Thank god he hadn’t said that aloud.

 

“This is… amazing,” Peter said honestly, flipping through the pages. Posing on a beach, in front of an American flag, moodily standing against a sunset backdrop. It must be so cringey, seeing something like this of oneself. “I know that both of us basically got duped, as far as this thing goes, but I am so glad it got made.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Mr. Stark spoke up then, swallowing a mouthful of the pilfered ham. “America’s darling featured in a national treasure, all because I, surprise, know what I’m talking about.”

 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, now,” Cap advised, and Peter had to laugh.

 

“Spider-Man,” Thor called his name and pressed a plate piled high with ham into his hands. “Your generous gifts speak volumes of your character. Stay and drink with us!”

 

“Oh! Uh— no thank you. That’s super nice, and I’ll definitely hang around, if no one minds, but it’s gonna be a pass on the drinks.”

 

“Oh my god, are you even old enough to drink?” Clint demanded suddenly, and Peter’s face reddened. His silence must have been enough of an answer. “Oh my god, you’re a _baby!_ ”

 

“How old are you, even?” Mr. Stark scoffed, and Peter crossed his arms.

 

“‘I’m old enough,” he argued. “I just don’t, because… I’m sober. Yeah. I stopped drinking. You all ought to be proud of me.”

 

“Sure, Spider-kid,” Natasha rolled her eyes at him. “And this is my natural hair color.”

 

“Can somebody card this kid?” Sam waved a hand towards Peter. “Who let him in here?”

 

“JARVIS, you’re fired,” Tony informed the AI. “I’m going to have to hire a bouncer, at this rate.”

 

“Very funny,” Peter huffed, but he threw himself down into the empty space James had left on the couch. “You made your point, I’m younger than you. I’m putting all of you in a nursing home someday, I hope you know that.” There was a round of laughter that warmed Peter to the core, and he rolled his mask up in order to eat with the Avengers, a broad smile lingering on his face.

 

—-

 

Peter was sprawled across the couch, groaning. “My stomach hurts,” he complained, and Aunt May shot him an indulgent smile.

 

“I’d started to think that I’d never see the day you weren’t hungry anymore,” she teased, continuing to sip at her hot chocolate. The television was on in front of them, broadcasting from Times Square, where the ball was set to drop in about four hours. Peter was feeling tired and content. New Year’s, while not his favorite holiday, was still a time he looked forward to every year. He, Aunt May, and Uncle Ben would always stay in the house, eat themselves silly, and play board games until midnight.

 

Things had been just a little different this year, of course.

 

Peter lifted his head to look at the evidence of their continued celebration; the board games were still stacked on the table, and one puzzle was sitting half done next to the tower. It had been weird, playing without Uncle Ben, but they had still had fun, he thought. He knew that he and Aunt May had both caught each other staring at the empty seat at the table more than once.

 

“At least we didn’t have to put away any leftovers, this year,” Peter offered, propping his head against the armrest of the couch so he could grin sleepily at her.

 

“At least your stomach isn’t growling anymore,” Aunt May countered, setting her mug aside as she climbed carefully up out of her chair. Moving was getting more difficult for her these days, he noticed, that now-familiar pang of worry in his chest. The coming years would be difficult for her. Peter would have to make sure he wasn’t absent enough to make it even harder. “I was thinking,” she said, in that tone of voice that suggested he might not like what she was about to say. “That we could go over to Anna’s house, tonight, to watch the ball drop. What do you think?”

 

Peter watched her go into the kitchen, pretending to act casual even as she snuck a peek at him around the corner. She wanted someone else around, he realized. Aunt May had spent the entire day with Peter, but the weight of Uncle Ben’s loss was sitting heavily on her, tonight.

 

He couldn’t blame her: it was bothering Peter, too.

 

“You could talk to MJ,” She offered, as if it were some kind of incentive. Peter hardly knew MJ, he thought with amusement, but he guessed it would be okay, seeing her again.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed, putting his head back down. “Yeah, that sounds good.” He heard a quiet sigh of relief from the kitchen and he was glad for it.

 

“Good,” She said with a smile as she reappeared in the doorway. “We can leave at ten thirty. That should give us about an hour to visit before midnight.”

 

“Sounds good,” Peter agreed, forcing himself to sit up so he wouldn’t fall asleep. “Do you want to play cards for a while?”

 

“That sounds nice,” Aunt May agreed, but she sounded distracted.

 

“Hey,” Peter stood and went over to her, pulling her into a hug without hesitation. “I love you, Aunt May. I love you so much. Thanks for another year of being the best Aunt ever.” Aunt May huffed out a teary-sounding laugh and wrapped her arms around him, too.

 

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” She said firmly, voice watery. “Don’t you go making me cry, now. It’s bad luck to cry on the new year.”

 

“You made that up,” Peter argued, smiling into her shoulder. “If it’s happy crying, it’s fine.”

 

“Hmmph.” Aunt May gave him a squeeze, then shuffled over to the closet to find the deck of cards.

 

“I’ll make some popcorn,” Peter volunteered, ignoring Aunt May’s disbelieving scoff.

 

“I thought you were full,” She said accusingly, turning to shake the pack of cards rebukingly. Peter shot her a grin and shrugged.

 

“Didn’t last long,” he quipped back, tugging the plastic off a bag and tossing it into the microwave. Aunt May pursed her lips at him, but didn’t stop him as he started the microwave, instead sitting down to deal out the cards: it was probably bridge, knowing her.

 

The game took about an hour and a half, and Peter was watching Aunt May just as carefully as she was watching him. They were both walking on eggshells, and by the time Aunt May announced that she was going to get ready to go, the tension was practically palpable. It was a relief to have a few moments to breathe. He tried not to wonder if Aunt May was tearing up as she shut her bedroom door, instead focusing on the sound of the performer currently in Times Square.

 

Ironically, it was Gavin DeGraw singing _Not Over You._ It fit so well it was kind of annoying.

 

Peter stood and went into his room, changing his shirt for something slightly less slouchy. He wasn’t close with MJ, so he wasn’t really willing to show up in his pajamas. As he changed into actual jeans instead of sweatpants, he heard his phone buzzing.

 

**Miracleon71ststreet: Hey Pete! Hows your new year’s eve going?**

**Corny-on-the-Cob: Happy new year Gwen! Its good me and aunt may have been hanging out all day. Were going over to her friend Annas house soon. You know mj? Thats her aunt. She and may are really close**

**Miracleon71ststreet: Yeah for sure, mj is great. Weve hung out a couple of times. Tell aunt may hi for me**

**Corny-on-the-Cob: Will do. So what are you up to?**

**Miracleon71ststreet: Not much. Were just hanging around waiting on the ball to drop. Is this song depressing or what?**

**Corny-on-the-Cob: Right??**

 

Peter grinned down at his phone, amused by Gwen’s like-mindedness. It didn’t come as a surprise that she was watching the Times Square broadcast— did anybody watch anything else? But he was touched that she was clearly thinking of him.

 

“Peter,” Aunt May knocked lightly on his door. “Come on out when you’re ready to go.” He heard her walking away and he sat on the bed in order to pull his shoes on, then jogged out to meet Aunt May, plastering a smile over his face as he pocketed his phone, keys, and wallet.

 

“Gwen says hi,” Peter volunteered, taking her arm in a casual attempt to provide a little stability as they walked out the door. He locked it behind himself, noting Aunt May’s fond smile.

 

“She’s such a sweet girl,” Aunt May sighed happily. “You ought to invite her over for dinner again, soon. I’d love to see her.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed as they stepped into the elevator. He pressed the button for the ground floor. “I bet she’d love that. She adores you, you know.” Aunt May’s smile widened and Peter felt a loosening in his chest. She seemed to be focusing on happier thoughts, which was a relief.

 

“I’m so glad you found someone who makes you happy,” Aunt May’s thoughts turned wistful, and Peter thought that maybe he was wrong about that. “You know, your Uncle Ben and I met when we were teenagers. He and I… we made each other very happy.” Peter smiled, nodding.

 

“I know. You two— watching you taught me what to look for, you know? How to know what was a good relationship and what wasn’t.” They were quiet for a moment as they left the elevator and headed for the parking lot. “I want to be like that, someday. You guys were everything I ever want to be with someone.”  The quiet fell again for a moment, but Peter heard Aunt May sniffling and he looked over to find her tearing up.

 

“Oh, Peter,” She pulled him to a stop right there next to the car and hugged him tightly. “I loved your uncle so much. And I know without a doubt that he loved me, too. And I want that for you so badly.” She leaned back, hands gripping his shoulders as she blinked teary eyes at him. “And someday you’ll have that, Peter. You are such a good boy— so kind and thoughtful and handsome and _so_ smart. Someday you’re going to wake up and realize that you’re crazy in love and you’ll _know_ that the person you’re with is the one.” The bashful grin on Peter’s face made her hug him tightly again.

 

“I hope I already found that,” Peter muttered, and Aunt May sniffled.

 

“My boy,” She breathed. “You’re getting so grown up. I’m so proud of you, Peter. And I know your Uncle Ben would be, too.” The sudden surge of emotion in Peter was unexpected and overwhelming, and he buried his face back into Aunt May’s shoulder as he thought about that.

 

“I hope so,” he muttered, and Aunt May’s voice firmed.

 

“I _know_ so,” she assured him. “He was always proud of you, and I know he’d be so proud of the man you’ve become.”

 

Their embrace lingered until finally the sound of drunken laughter startled them apart, and Peter realized that both of their faces were streaked with tears. Peter laughed, scrubbing at his cheeks.

 

“We should go,” he muttered, rounding the car to climb into the passenger’s seat, and Aunt May slid in behind the wheel. As she started the car, he fidgeted with his phone, shooting his aunt a smile. “Love you, Aunt May,” he said, and she gave him one of those sweet smiles that always relaxed him.

 

“I love you, too, Peter.” She pulled out onto the road and Peter allowed himself to slump back into the seat, watching the lights of the city as they drove. Strings of lights were still hanging from Christmas, and there were people crowding the streets. The air of festivity as Peter leaned his forehead against the window was everywhere, and he smiled, listening to Aunt May humming along with a song on the radio and he let the peace settle over him. Peter closed his eyes. Soon he would go back to school, and he would return to patrols, and things would get crazy again, but for now, he could relax. For now, he could just listen to his Aunt, look forward to the New Year, and ignore the itching in the back of his head.

 

Peter opened his eyes as another car slammed into theirs.

 

The impact was jarring— even moreso than hitting the ground after a missed web shot. He didn’t pass out, but his body must have gone into autopilot because one moment he was sitting in the car, looking at Aunt May, and the next, they were stopped, and his body hurt and he was ripping the seatbelt off his body because he couldn’t get it unbuckled.

 

His head hurt. He wondered if he had hit it on something, and realized at the same time that his thoughts felt slow and unfocused.

 

He looked out the passenger window. There were people screaming, but it was almost like it was happening in slow motion— or maybe like it was happening twice in close succession, like an echo. People were staring, fumbling with their phones, and that made Peter remember his. He looked down, surprised to find that he had crunched his in his grip at some point in the crash. He opened his hand and let it fall to the floorboards, watching it bounce once.

 

He looked over at Aunt May again, but a blinding light threw her into profile and he couldn’t see details. He squinted, trying to make her out: she was slumped over the wheel, arms hanging down at her sides. He could smell a metallic tang in the air, and a growing awareness in his mind told him that it wasn’t from the crunched in driver’s side door.

 

“Aunt May,” His voice cracked, and he reached out to touch her. His hand came away wet and he almost couldn’t understand why. “A-Aunt May, wake up.” There was no response.

 

Peter pushed the passenger door open and staggered out of the car.

 

He could hear the screaming better, now, but he didn’t pay attention to it. Everything felt foggy, confusing. He stumbled, the world spinning around him, and he dragged himself around to the other side of the car, one hand staying on the hood the whole way in an effort to ground himself.

 

There was a white car, almost as junky-looking as theirs, smushed up against Aunt May’s door. The driver was already out of the car, vomiting on the ground. Peter stared, and the man— mid-twenties, maybe, looked up to see him.

 

“I-” His words rang with a clarity that nothing else seemed to. “I’m so sorry— I— oh, god,” He glanced towards the wreck in front of him, then vomited again, and Peter realized he was sobbing. He could smell alcohol from here. “I didn’t— I wasn’t— I’m _sorry_ —”

 

Peter turned his fragmented attention back to Aunt May as best he could, staggering towards where the cars met, but something stopped him. He looked down, towards the point of resistance, and found a hand on his arm.

 

His eyes slowly trailed up the arm connected to it, following the shoulder until he found a face. A policeman? His mouth was moving, but Peter wasn’t absorbing his words.

 

“What?”

 

“Come away from there,” he instructed Peter, and there was a fearful tone in his voice that stoked the embers of terror underneath Peter’s fuzzy brain.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Come sit down on the curb,” The man insisted, and Peter didn’t fight as he was dragged away.

 

“My aunt—”

 

“They’re helping her,” The policeman helped Peter sit down, but Peter couldn’t take his eyes away from where paramedics were working by the car. He realized that the lights bathing the scene weren’t the festive holiday lights after all, but the flashing emergency vehicle lights.

 

He knew the policeman was trying to get him to do something, follow a finger with his eyes, he thought, but he couldn’t concentrate on it. He had no patience for it. He pushed the man out of his line of sight, ignoring his surprised yelp, and he watched as his Aunt was moved meticulously onto a gurney. He tried to listen, but he was only catching snatches.

 

“—Still breathing—”

 

“—Need a transfusion—”

 

“ —Flushing—”

 

“What’s happening?” Peter asked again, but he didn’t hear a response. He saw Aunt May being loaded into the ambulance just as a second one pulled up. “Where are they taking her?” Two paramedics were running towards him, now, and the policeman was helping him to his feet.

 

Peter lost time again, because the next thing he knew, he was laying down in the ambulance, his eyes jerkily following the finger the paramedic had shoved in front of his face.

 

“Where’s my aunt?”

 

He was on a stretcher, being rolled through the automatic doors of what he realized was the hospital.

 

“Is my aunt okay?”

 

He was sitting in a small room on a bed, and someone was standing in front of a computer, staring at him with concern.

 

“Peter Parker,” he said, answering a question he’d already forgotten. “I need my aunt.”

 

“She’s getting admitted, too, honey,” The person told him, voice soft and gentle. “She can’t come right now. Is there someone else I can call for you?”

 

Peter must have fallen asleep, because someone was shaking him awake. The nurse was gone, and a doctor was standing over him, a woman in a pantsuit standing next to him. They both looked at him with expression in their eyes that sent a spike of terror through him.

 

“Peter,” The doctor said gently, and Peter heard, from some other room, a countdown beginning.

 

_Ten!_

 

“Where am I?”

 

_Nine!_

 

“You’re at Flushing Hospital.”

 

_Eight!_

 

“Where is my aunt? I need my aunt.” His voice was shaking.

 

_Seven!_

 

The two exchanged a glance.

 

_Six!_

 

“Peter,”

 

_Five!_

 

The woman sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on his knee. There was a surge of fear so strong Peter thought he might throw up.

 

_Four!_

 

“You and your aunt were in a car crash,”

 

_Three!_

 

“No,” Peter knew, suddenly, what they were going to say, and he didn’t want to hear it. He couldn’t bear to hear it.

 

_Two!_

 

“Peter,” The voice was softer, this time, heavy with a pained kind of sympathy.

 

_One!_

 

“Your aunt… she didn’t make it.”

 

_Happy New Year!_

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly fluff and exposition, with a little bit of major plot that changes the dynamic and tone of the rest of the fic. Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> :) :) :)
> 
> But yall, it took me so long to write this chapter and I'm sorry for that. It is CHOCK FULL of dialogue, which is much slower to write than Pete's rambly introspection. Plus I was doing an absolute BOATLOAD of research for it.
> 
> And I just want to say that IN CANON, IN THE COMICS, Thor calls Spider-Man SPIDER-MAN, not Man of Spiders. I just...cannot. I can't.
> 
> Also I actually looked up the Times Square performance schedule for New Year this coming year, and that's literally what's going to be playing. I could not believe my luck.
> 
> So! Anyways, it took me daaaaaays to write May's death. Hopefully the next chapter will come a little sooner than this.
> 
> SPOILERS IN THE COMMENTS, HEADS UP ON THAT, so don't read them unless you're caught up, ok? :[]
> 
> https://iamsuperasexual.tumblr.com/post/172397048231/from-ch4-of-my-fic-this-could-be-really-really


	5. Freefall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic depiction of injuries, or maybe just really bad injuries in general, for this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN PLAYING LOUDLY ON REPEAT
> 
> Hello!! It's me!! I told you I wasn't done with this!
> 
> EDIT: Officially beta'd, now! :D (Please continue to excuse any mistakes anyway)
> 
> Don't worry. Chapter 6 is coming along MUCH faster than this one did.

**January**

 

_ Happy New Year! _

 

Peter rolled over and vomited onto the floor. There was the sound of cheering from the other room, but Peter was gasping, fingers clenching almost hard enough to punch holes where he gripped the mattress of the hospital bed. He could feel a reassuring hand rubbing at his back, but there were no tears. He couldn’t—  _ Aunt May couldn’t be—  _

 

“It’s going to be okay, Peter.” It was the woman in the pantsuit. How could she say that? How could this be okay? “Do you have any family we can call?” 

Peter didn’t answer, but she didn’t press the question. He suspected that she had already begun her research on him and knew the answer. She was probably hoping he had someone else he could volunteer.

 

Peter threw up again, and the doctor shone a light in his eyes. “It’s okay, buddy,” he said, his voice equally gentle. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” Why did they keep saying that? Nothing about this was okay. Aunt May—

 

“I’m going to give you some time,” The woman promised. “While I look up your family, okay? I’ll be back soon and we’ll… talk.” She squeezed his knee again. “I’m so sorry, Peter. But we’re going to make sure you’re taken care of.” He felt her shift off the bed, but he didn’t look up as she left the room, lingering in the door before disappearing.

 

The doctor was talking to him, but he didn’t listen, and eventually, the man left him alone, too. Someone came by to clean up the vomit, but then he was on his own, except for the security officer who sat outside the door, apparently keeping an eye on him. He didn’t go back to sleep, and he wished that the fog in his head would stop receding. If it was foggy, if he was concussed, he didn’t have to think. He could just stare at the ceiling and not think about anything.

 

But his thoughts were coming back, and the more they did, the more the burning agony in his chest grew. He knew it wasn’t an injury, despite the way the feeling ripped his insides to shreds. He tried not to think about it, but he couldn’t stop himself.

 

Someone stopped by to check on him a few times an hour, but they didn’t engage him beyond asking if he was doing alright or if he needed anything. Peter just stared up at the ceiling, ignoring the way the flickering fluorescent light added to the pain in his head.

 

Instead, he focused on the future.

 

It was hours before the social worker— that must be what she was— returned. A glance at the clock told Peter that it was three forty-five in the morning, but the hospital emergency room hadn’t quieted at all. 

 

“Hi, Peter,” She said, voice as soft and gentle as the last time. “How are you doing?” He shifted his head to look at her, struggling to keep his breathing even, but he didn’t say anything. “I know. I’m so sorry, Peter.” She reached up to squeeze his shoulder in a way that he thought was supposed to be comforting, but it just made him think of Aunt May, and tears pricked at his eyes. “I wish we could put this off, I really, really do, but we need to talk about what happens next. It’s very important that we get you settled as quickly as possible.”

 

“What’s going to happen?” Peter asked, and his voice was raspy and rough. He sounded almost as bad as he felt, and he saw the social worker wince.

 

“Your mother had a cousin,” She told him, and Peter would have felt surprised if there were room or any more emotions. “In Nebraska. We’re trying to get in contact with him: he would be the first choice, rather than sending you into foster care.”

 

“Nebraska,” Peter repeated, voice flat and dull. They wanted to send him to the middle of nowhere? He’d lost the last of his family, and now they wanted to take his city from him, too? They wanted to take him away from everything he knew after he had just lost Aunt May?

 

“I know,” She squeezed his shoulder again and Peter shrugged her off, turning his eyes away. “But don’t worry. I’ve got a temporary residence lined up for you— Mr. and Mrs. Harrison will house you for a few days while we talk to your cousin and get your affairs in order. Peter, I’ll… I’ll make sure you get to stay here long enough for…” She trailed off for a moment. “For your aunt’s funeral.” Peter gagged and the social worker lurched away, worried that he was going to throw up again, but she settled down again as he did. “Oh, Peter,” She leaned in and hugged him, and it was the  _ last thing _ that Peter wanted, but he didn’t have the strength to push her away, now. “I know it hurts. I know. But we’re going to get you through this.”

 

Who hired this woman? She was terrible at comfort. She was just making Peter feel worse. What did it matter if he got through this? _His aunt_ _hadn’t_.

 

Nebraska, he thought again. He had lost his family. Now he was going to lose the rest of it, too: his home, his school, his job, his life, Gwen. The Avengers. Spider-Man.

 

Absolutely not, Peter decided as he stood, limbs shaking. “I have to go to the bathroom.” His declaration surprised the social worker, but she smoothed her face out into a sympathetic understanding. She thought he wanted privacy, he realized. Probably to cry.

 

“Okay, honey. Come on. I’ll show you where one is.” She placed a hand between his shoulders, gently steering him out the door. The security guard stood, clearly planning on following them, but Peter didn’t wait. He broke into a sprint, surprising both of them into shouts. Running footsteps started immediately after him and he realized that the officer had been there to prevent this exact situation.

 

But Peter was  _ fast. _ He was so fast. There was no one here who would have had a single hope of catching him.

 

He sprinted down the corridor, spotting a pair of double doors. He slammed into them and heard the lock inside snap from the force and he was through, into the lobby. There was more shouting but he didn’t hesitate for a moment, leaping through the doors and out into the night.

 

Peter went home. His keys were still in his pocket, and he unlocked the door with fumbling hands, then slammed it behind him and locked it back.

 

He could still smell popcorn. The pack of cards and all the board games were still out on the table. They’d accidentally left the small, dim lamp on the table by the couch turned on.

 

Peter’s breath caught in his throat and he felt his breath coming quick and shallow, shaking in and out of him with an audible wheezing sound that terrified him even as his heart kicked into overdrive. Aunt May could have been just in the other room, he thought, mouth sour. She had been here just hours ago, and her presence was heavy in every square foot of their small apartment.

 

He leaned heavily against the door, gasping, trying to breathe through his constricting chest. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. What was happening to him? Was this a result of the car crash? Had he pushed himself too hard?

 

He clapped his hands over his mouth as he realized his frantic breaths had become something closer to screams, and he sank to the floor as his knees weakened. He was sobbing, but he still felt so shell-shocked that he could hardly process the emotions he was feeling.

 

What was  _ happening _ to him? Why couldn’t he stop? 

 

He sat, unable to breathe, unable to even remember to try as his brain short circuited. Between the concussion, the danger, the threat of leaving, the news about Aunt May—

 

_ Aunt May. _

 

He ripped his hoodie off and buried his face into it, trying to control his hyperventilation by breathing through the fabric. He didn’t know if it was helping, but the way it muffled the involuntary shrieks ripping out of his throat was, somehow, almost comforting. It took nearly ten minutes of that— sitting against the door, crying, worried that he was going to suffocate— for him to begin to regain control.

 

His weeping slowly petered out, but the turmoil inside him didn’t cease. He felt so drained, so weak, that he almost gave in a second time, but then he realized that the people from the hospital, or maybe Family Services, would be looking for him. And they would look here, first.

 

Peter staggered to his feet, still gasping weakly as he stumbled into his room. He had made his decision: he was  _ not _ going to Nebraska. He was  _ not _ going into the foster system. Peter was  _ not _ going to lose everything he knew. He  _ needed _ to stay in New York, and nothing was going to take him away from his city. Not now. Not after this.

 

He didn’t allow himself to think about Aunt May. Each time his mind wandered in that direction, it evoked an almost paralyzing grief, and not only could he not afford that, now, he didn’t  _ want _ to feel it. 

 

He’d been through this before. He didn’t want to do it again. He couldn’t.

 

He grabbed his backpack and wrenched his spider suit out. He was going to need this. He changed quickly into it, leaving the mask off for the moment, then stared down into his backpack. He wasn’t going to need any of his school things, he realized. He couldn’t go to school while people were looking for him.

 

He dumped out the books, the folders, the notebooks, the pencils, shaking his backpack until it was empty. Then he began repacking it. His camera. His laptop. The hat and scarf from Gwen. The gifts from the Avengers. As many clothes as he could fit. His wallet and keys.

 

His eyes flicked around the room, pain filling them as he realized everything he was going to have to leave behind. He chewed on his lip, then ripped the sheet off his bed and went out into the living room, laying it flat on the floor. On top of it he stacked all the photo albums, the framed pictures on the walls, Uncle Ben’s glasses, in the case, and Aunt May’s tees that she only wore when doing heavy-duty cleaning. The stack of home videos from when he was little.

 

Everything he could find, everything that  _ meant _ something to his family went in the blanket, which he then bundled up and secured shut with a strip he ripped off a curtain. There was no way he was going to leave all this behind. Someone would come to the apartment eventually, he knew, someone from the city, and gather up all their belongings and clear them away so the apartment could be rented out again. Peter wasn’t going to let them have everything.

 

There was a knock on the door.

 

Peter froze, then burst into action, as quietly as he could manage. He ran into Aunt May’s room and opened her closet, digging out the box where she hid what she called the “emergency money”. The stack of bills was thin, but it was better than nothing. This was an emergency, and Aunt May would understand.

 

He caught sight of Aunt May’s jewelry box and he staggered over to it. With shaking hands, he lifted the lid and removed the small box inside. The lid flipped open and he stared down at the wedding rings inside. They had belonged to his parents, and they were the only things that had been given back to the Parker family after the plane crash. He shut the jewelry box gently, but kept the ring box tight in his hand.

 

He grabbed the blanket bag from the living room and hustled into his bedroom again, snagging his mask and pulling it on over his head, slipping the rings into his backpack before shrugging the whole thing onto his shoulder.

 

Thank god his room didn’t face out onto the street, Peter thought with a grimace, slipping out the window. He hauled the blanket after him, wincing when he realized that it wouldn’t fit. He reached up and snapped off the piece of wooden frame that was in the way, finally pulling the bag free. He could hear the doorknob jiggling and someone was calling his name, so Peter wasted no more time in throwing himself away from the building, webbing himself higher into the sky, hopefully out of sight.

 

Peter ignored the continued celebrations on the ground. He was a runaway, he realized flatly as he swung through Queens, not sure where to go. He was a missing child. That was fine. Because on top of anything else he was, Peter was a superhero, and he could take care of himself. He wasn’t like the other kids who struck out on their own: he had abilities and resources that they didn’t.

 

He landed on a fire escape, panting, and recognized immediately where he’d come without so much as a conscious thought.

 

He crouched down, knocking on the window, struggling to keep his tears at bay as the reality of the situation began to sink in. He saw Gwen through the glass as she lifted her head, sleepiness clearing into something like wonder. Her expression changed immediately and she opened the window.

 

“Spider-Man?” No. No. He couldn’t do this with her not knowing. Now wasn’t the time for games, or secret identities,or lies. He needed her, and he needed her to  _ know _ . He ripped off his mask, weeping openly, now. 

 

“Gwen,” His shoulders shook and his voice came out a rough whisper. “Aunt May—  _ Aunt May is— _ ”

 

“Peter,” she gasped out, glancing out the window around him. “Peter, what happened?”

 

“She’s gone,” he could barely get the words out, and they caused a fresh wave of agony that shook him to the core. He saw her eyes well up with tears even as disbelief filled her expression. “There was an accident— I think he was drunk—”

 

“Oh, god,” She stared at him, lips trembling, then stepped back. “Come inside.”

 

Peter slipped through the window and pushed the glass back down, shutting out the night.

 

\---

 

The main difference between a roller coaster and the web-swinging that he did as Spider-Man, Peter thought, was control.

 

He’d been on the roller coasters at Coney Island plenty of times, obviously. As a kid, he’d found them terrifying: the anticipation of the rise followed by the sharp drop of his stomach as they rounded the top and hurtled towards the ground. The cutting sense of terror as the floor fell out from under them stuck with him long after he’d finally staggered his way away from the ride.

 

After the bite, when Peter had discovered the thrill of falling, the absolute joy of throwing himself through the air with no support at all, Peter had gone back and tried again. He’d let himself be strapped into the roller coaster without a single complaint, a bright grin plastered over his face. The feeling in his gut wasn’t dread, he assured himself as they climbed the first rise. It was excitement. He was excited.

 

Then they tipped over the edge and he couldn’t lie to himself. He  _ hated _ roller coasters.

 

He’d left Coney Island immediately after that, and he hadn’t been back to give it another go: there wasn’t much point. After all, he could tell exactly where the problem lay. On the ride, it could crash and there would be very little that he could do about it. It could derail and maybe he’d have time to rip away the safety bar before they fell, but he doubted that he could have saved himself, let alone all the other people. He was helpless, strapped into the car, and he hated that feeling. 

 

Swinging, though, Peter was in complete control. It was just him, up there, with his webs. He understood them. He trusted them not to fail. He knew what to do if they did. He knew how to move his body, he could tell when he needed to catch himself to avoid splatting onto the sidewalk, and he always knew where his body was going.

 

Control, he told himself, was important. It was natural to want that. It was normal to want to grip a situation by the horns and steer, rather than letting the bull rampage. So he gripped the bull tightly and pulled, throwing it across the china shop.

 

Of course, by  _ bull _ , Peter meant  _ dangerous kidnapper _ ,  _ horns _ were  _ legs _ , and the  _ china shop _ referred to the  _ dimly lit street _ he was currently fighting on.

 

There had been four kidnapping cases reported over the last week alone, and it seemed like the entirety of Queens was in a panic. Peter wasn’t going to let it continue. Anger roved through his body as he almost reluctantly aimed the kidnapper into a swathe of webbing, but even now, he didn’t want to actually  _ hurt  _ anyone if he could help it.

 

His spidey-sense tingled warningly in the back of his head and he ducked, feeling a knife pass over his head. He threw up a hand against the extended arm, forcing it up, and he came up under it, a quick jab to the gut causing the criminal in front of him to buckle as his breath made a hasty departure.

 

“What’s  _ wrong _ with you guys?” Peter demanded, giving him a firm shove on the shoulders that sent him sprawling into the sidewalk. Peter webbed him there, looking around for their third cohort. “Kidnapping? What kind of  _ low-life _ do you have to be to steal a kid from their parents?” He couldn’t see where the last man had gone, which was making him nervous, but the steady buzz of his spidey-sense assured him that he was still nearby. “To break a family like that?” Maybe there was a little layer of personal going on here, Peter acknowledged reluctantly, before shoving the thought away.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Okay. He was good. He just needed to focus up, here, and get the job done so he could get those kids home. He listened hard, trying to figure out where the last man had gone, but there wasn’t any sign of another person on the street. Maybe he’d gone inside to secure the children. Peter should hurry.

 

He took the time to web the front door closed; there would be no escape, that way, but the villain inside wouldn’t realize it until it was too late. After that, a single leap had him halfway up the squat building he’d cornered the men outside of, and he could hear the sound of a crying child. His heart ached with sympathy and he hurried, scurrying up the wall and trying the first window he came across. It was locked; obviously, of course it was locked, it was a freaking dilapidated building. It’s not like those just sat around  _ begging  _ people to sneak inside. The idea was to keep people out.

 

Peter coated the window in web fluid, then gave it a firm, quick punch. The glass crunched under his fist and he kicked the whole mess to the floor inside. It was a simple matter to hop over it, and then he was there in the dark hallway, listening to an angry voice telling the crier to be quiet. Peter’s heart thudded in his chest and he started down the hallway.

 

Would the bad guy hurt the kids, if he knew Peter was here? Probably. He might even be preparing to use them as human shields right now. The teen grimaced at the idea, hands clenching into fists. He was putting a stop to this. He was going to  _ make this right. _

 

He skittered up the wall to the ceiling, staying out of sight as he continued down the hall, hearing the sound of hurried footsteps. It sounded like several people: the kidnapper and the children, he decided as a door slammed somewhere ahead of him, making him flinch.

 

Other than the sound of footsteps and muffled crying in the distance, the air around him felt heavy with the quiet. The concrete walls suppressed any sounds that may have drifted in from outside as he moved away from his entry point, and he swore that he could probably cut the atmosphere, it felt so thick.

 

He listened at doors as he passed, only opening them once he had determined that he couldn’t hear any sound of life behind it, and always with great caution. In the third room, he found where the children must have been kept until just moments ago: scattered threadbare blankets and one lost shoe lay abandoned on the floor. It sent a chill through him and Peter dropped to the floor in order to retrieve the shoe.

 

Someone was going to need this, he promised himself, turning and heading back to his search.

 

The second floor, the one he’d entered on, was empty. No surprise attack lingered behind the closed doors, no gun swung upwards into his face as he rounded a corner. They’d vacated to a lower floor. Peter opened the stairwell and crept inside, listening hard. There was a scuffling sound down below, and Peter’s heart lurched as he heard a rough, whispered voice, followed by a whimper and the sound of a thump.

 

Peter threw himself down the stairwell, bouncing off the back wall as it turned back on itself in his rush to get downstairs. “Hold it,” he cried, unwilling to let the silence drag on any longer, but there was no reply outside of the wailing of a young child. 

 

Peter hit the flat ground of the first floor hallway in time to see a door slam shut at the other end. He took one step before a clicking sound caused him to freeze and finally the villain spoke.

 

“Don’t move, Spider-Man!” A gruff voice called, hard and determined. The children were crying again, louder this time, but Peter forced himself to concentrate on the words carrying down the hall towards him. “I’ve got these kids hostage, you understand that? You try and come in here and I’ll blow their heads off!” Peter’s blood ran cold and he swallowed hard. What could he do? He couldn’t trust that he would be fast enough to break down the door and web the gun away before the man got a shot off, and he would never forgive himself if he let one of those kids get hurt. He clutched the shoe in his hand and took a few quiet steps closer to the door, brain scrambling for a solution.

 

“Hey, let’s all take it easy, here,” Peter tried, voice as calm as he could make it. “Nobody has to get hurt. That’s the last thing I want. You know that, right? So let’s work this out. What can I do to get you to let those kids go?”

 

“Get out of here,” The man was shouting. “Get far away and don’t look back. Me and the kiddos will scram, and if I see so much as a  _ hint _ of red spandex— well, let’s just say that I have enough hostages to lose a couple, huh?” 

 

Peter grit his teeth brow furrowing under his mask. Obviously he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t let this man get away with the kids. But he couldn’t let him kill them, either. 

 

Maybe he could agree, sneak outside, and follow until the man dropped his guard. Then all it would take was one well-placed web to get that gun out of commission, and from there, the fight would be a piece of cake.

 

But no: he would be on high alert, Peter was sure. He would be expecting Spider-Man to follow. He would have his eye on the sky, he might be twitchy, it would be way too easy for things to get out of hand. And besides, it was possible that Peter might lose him. He might get away in the streets of New York, escaping with the kids and leaving Peter empty-handed. He couldn’t allow that.

 

Did the room have a window? Maybe he could go outside, round the building, and swing in that way. No— that obviously wouldn’t work, either. Even if he did manage to get the drop on the guy, there would be broken glass everywhere, and he might barrel into one of the kids on his way in… too dangerous.

 

“Okay,” Peter agreed. “Okay, I’m leaving. Just… don’t hurt the kids.”

 

“Get going!” 

 

“Okay,” Peter retreated down the hall, then stealthily climbed up the wall and to the ceiling, creeping back towards the locked door as quietly as possible. Perching above it, he crossed his fingers and waited, hoping that he would be able to find some kind of advantage when the man finally emerged.

 

“You still there, Spider-Man?” The man called after a few more moments, which Peter obviously didn’t answer. Inside, he heard a squeak. “Kid— go look in the hall. See if he’s still there. If you lie to me, you’re gonna get it.” Peter grimaced, and the lock on the door clicked. Time seemed to slow down as the door swung out and a child’s head emerged—

 

The sound of a gunshot shattered the silence, and the children inside the room were screaming. “No!” Peter exclaimed, a web yanking the kid out of the door, out of harm’s way, and he swung himself down and through the doorway, ready for a fight.

 

But there wasn’t one. The three unaccounted for kids were all huddled in one corner, crying, and the culprit was lying on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out from his head. Peter gaped, uncomprehending, until a slow movement attracted his attention.

 

A red-clad arm bearing a handgun was poking through the window, although it was casually withdrawing. As Peter’s gaze followed the movement, his eyes landed on a costumed face that was… frankly, weirdly similar to his own. He didn’t waste time in webbing the gun out of the man’s hand and sticking it to the ceiling, drawing the attention of those white eyes.

 

“Oh em gee,” The red-and-black-bedecked man exclaimed, both hands pressing to his cheeks where he still stood outside the window. “Spider-Man! Well color me starstruck. What are you doing here?”

 

“What am  _ I  _ doing here? What are you talking about?” Peter was torn between going to comfort the victims in the corner and in the hall and going after the costumed guy who literally just shot a man. “I was saving these kids!”

 

“What a coincidence! Me, too.” The man swung a leg up and began laboriously climbing through a window that really looked too small for those kinds of shenanigans.

 

“You just  _ shot _ someone!” Peter exclaimed, horrified.

 

“That’s what I do,” the man agreed, sounding a little breathless as he basically shoehorned himself into the room. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Deadpool, mercenary extraordinaire?”

 

“Deadpool?” Peter repeated dumbly. “Mercenary?” He didn’t know there were mercenaries in New York City, although he supposed, in retrospect, it made sense.  _ Everything  _ was in this city  _ somewhere _ .

 

“Yes, that’s right,” Deadpool’s voice was sugary sweet. “See, when Mommy and Daddy love their baby very much, they hire a man to kill the person who took their little darling. Speaking of which,” He unzipped a pouch, causing a clatter of ammunition to fall out, scattering over the floor. “Ah, damnit, hold on,” He dug around until he emerged with a crumbled photograph, and Peter stared as he read the back. “I’m here for… Tiffany Anne? I’ve gotta get that little girl home.”

 

“You can’t think I’m letting you leave,” Peter said incredulously. “You’re a murderer! You’re getting arrested.” He pointedly webbed Deadpool’s feet to the ground, and the man shot a look downwards that somehow managed to look disappointed, despite the mask.

 

“Spidey, what the fuck—  oops, sorry, kiddos— surely you adhere to the superbro code.”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You want me to think that you’re a superhero?” Peter demanded.

 

“Not a superhero,” Deadpool’s eyes seemed to roll. “A mercenary, we’ve covered this. Although I  _ am _ pretty super, so it still counts.” He leaned in dramatically, one hand cupping next to his mouth so he could stage whisper across the room to Peter. “I’m literally immortal. Also my second power is being able to escape from webbing!” He lurched forward and Peter tensed, readying for a fight, but Deadpool literally just toppled over, startling shrieks of fright from the kids and a bark of surprised laughter from Peter. His feet were still firmly stuck. “Okay, well, that part was a lie, but I bet whatever face you just made was pretty funny.” Deadpool propped himself onto his elbows, glancing over towards the kids. The fourth had rejoined them, now, and they were giggling a little at the sight of the red-suited man sprawled over the floor. “See, we’re all feeling better now, right? Now that Spidey and Deadpool are here, you guys are gonna be just fine.” He shot Peter a look that almost reminded him of puppy dog eyes. “So can you let me out of this webbing or what?”

 

Peter hesitated for a moment before a glance towards the dead man steadied his nerves. “Absolutely not. But I’ll let you call the cops for me, if you want. I could use their help getting these guys home.” Deadpool whined and Peter was a little weirded out by it. He was having a hard time reconciling the image of this man with his self proclaimed career as a killer.

 

“I could help,” the man protested, visibly trying to pull his feet out of the trap, but Peter was confident in his webbing’s ability to hold. It hadn’t failed him in a long time, after all. 

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, pointing a stern finger at him. “By calling the police. If you’re on my side, just do it. If not, I’ll do it myself.” He turned, then, ignoring Deadpool’s grumbling in order to go over to the group of cowering kids. “Hey, guys,” He squatted down in front of them. “Did somebody lose this?” He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t dropped the shoe, and apparently neither could the little boy who took it from him, if his expression was to be believed. Or maybe it was something else causing the awe in those eyes. “Alright, guys: we’re going to get you all back to your families, okay? I promise. But for now, let’s get you out of this building.” To his surprise, he could hear Deadpool talking on the phone behind him, rattling off the address of the building they were currently standing in.

 

Peter straightened up, shooting a glance over at the mercenary, who he saw was watching him, head tilted to the side, propped against his fist, as if he were admiring him. He practically had heart eyes, for goodness sake.

 

He turned his attention back to the kids, then. “Okay, everybody hold hands,” he suggested, judging the oldest to be about seven. “Who wants to hold hands with Spidey?” 

 

“Me!”

 

“Not  _ you _ , Deadpool.” He rebuked, accepting the hands of the little boy he’d returned the shoe to and the youngest girl, watching as the other two grabbed onto them, in kind. “But thanks for making the call. And...for helping I guess? Geeze, man,” Peter huffed a sigh, then forced the smile back into his tone as he kept his eyes away from the still form of the kidnapper. “Everybody ready? Let’s go.”

 

“Aw, Spidey, c’mon! Let me outta this stuff.”

 

“No way,” Peter scoffed, leading the kids towards the door. “ _ You’re  _ waiting here for the police.”

 

“But Spider-Man!” Deadpool’s call echoed in the hall as Peter continued walking, two short strings of children trailing right behind. There was quiet, then, as the cowed kids meekly followed Spider-Man from the building until Peter finally found a back door and stepped out into the street, when another shout from the mercenary was drowned out by the sound of sirens not far off.

 

Peter sat down on the sidewalk, giving the two hands in his a reassuring squeeze. “The police are on their way,” he told them. “There’s probably going to be a lot of people running around, but don’t be scared. Everyone’s coming to help you get back home. You know everyone’s been real worried about you guys?”

 

“Are our moms and dads coming?” The oldest girl asked hopefully.

 

“I bet they will soon,” Peter assured her. “If no one’s told them already that we found you, they will as soon as they see who you are. Okay?” A chorus of nods told him that they were listening, at least, even if they were still too scared to talk much. He couldn’t really hold that against them. Besides, he was good at holding up both ends of a conversation. “You guys were so brave tonight, I can’t even believe it. When I was your age, I would have been shaking in my boots.”

 

“I was scared,” One of the younger two spoke up, voice quiet. Her curly hair was tangled and her face lacked that rosiness that Peter tended to associate with kids. It made him feel sick all over again.

 

“Hey, you know, it’s okay to be afraid,” Peter squeezed her hand again. “Something scary happened to you, it makes sense that you feel that way. But it’s all gonna be okay now. You’re going home to your parents, and those men are never going to hurt you again. They’re going to go away to jail for a very long time. You’re safe. You get that, right?” He looked around to each of them, noting the doubtful expression on the face of the oldest girl. The others seemed young enough to believe him.

 

Police cars swerved into view, then, and Peter opened his arms to the kids, who looked more frightened than ever, now. “C’mere, you guys,” All four crowded into his arms and he gave them a tight hug, holding them until the first of the cars screeched to a halt on the road. Then he let go, standing up, although he didn’t go far as the officers rushed towards them. It was a relief to see that no one drew any guns.

 

“Thank you, Spider-Man,” The boy muttered, giving him a hug around the legs that warmed his heart, but then they were being ushered away. Peter was surprised and pleased to see that at least some of the parents were already on the scene. He turned his attention to the remaining officers, then. It felt weird, interacting with police as a vigilante. He doubted that that feeling would ever go away.

 

“There are two guys webbed up over there,” He gestured around the side of the building, where he’d fought the first two kidnappers not half an hour ago. “And a guy named Deadpool inside— be careful: he killed the third guy.” He sounded almost as pained by it as he felt, but he immediately saw suspicious looks thrown towards him. “It wasn’t me! That’s not my deal: I save people,” he tried assuring them, but no one looked convinced.

 

“If there’s been a murder, we’re going to need you to come in for questioning,” a hard voice said, and Peter looked over to see Captain Stacy, Gwen’s father, approaching.  _ Crap. _

 

“I, um,”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Deadpool’s voice suddenly rang out from above and behind him, making Peter twirl, surprised, to find him leaning out of a second floor window. “I’m totally down to confess. I killed him. Spidey was totally innocent: he didn’t even see it happen. He missed the whole thing.” How did he manage to wink with a mask? More importantly, how did he get out of the webbing?

 

“Hey!” Peter exclaimed, a finger jutting up towards him. “What do you think you’re doing? How’d you get out of there?”

 

“I’ve got my ways,” Deadpool cooed back down to him, leaning both elbows on the window as he looked smugly down at him. The police were hurrying inside, now, but Deadpool seemed to be ignoring them. “I think I’ll keep them to myself, for now, just in case I end up in this situation again. But hey, look, Spidey, it’s been real, but I’ve gotta bounce. Your boy’s got a bounty to collect.” He ducked back inside the window just as Peter sent more webs his way.

 

“Shoot,” Peter hissed, leaping up to the window. An acrid, metallic scent hit him and his stomach turned as he thought of the dead man downstairs, but surely that was too far for him to be registering. He glanced down as he climbed through the window and saw a trail of blood. Was Deadpool injured? He’d seemed fine, when he’d webbed him to the floor.

 

A flash of motion drew his attention back towards his task, and he took off down the hallway, preparing himself for another chase through the building, but a crashing sound quickly put that idea to rest. Deadpool was, apparently, not on the subtle side.

 

Peter burst into the room he’d heard the clattering from to find Deadpool had knocked over a chair and was currently waving his hands in the air and trying to shush it, as if that would help. He looked up and they locked eyes— presumably, as they were both wearing masks— and groaned, head tipping back.

 

“Come on,” he complained. “Look, Spidey, I like you. I think you’re cool, the spider theme is way underrated, and you’re adorable enough that I just want to come over there and pinch your cheeks. I really don’t want to fight you. So just… skedaddle, swing away, go do your spidery  _ thang _ , just stop… bugging me.”

 

“Spiders aren’t bugs,” Peter answered automatically, still perturbed. How had Deadpool escaped his web? He looked down, gaping as Deadpool crooned at him.

 

“I love a smart guy.”

 

“What happened to your leg?” Peter demanded, pointing down to the long gash at Deadpool’s calf. The mercenary looked down, too.

 

“Oh, this? Ever seen  _ 127 Hours _ , Spidey? I was partway through doing that, but then I decided that boots aren’t  _ that  _ expensive.” He wiggled his socked toes. “So I just left them behind.” Peter had to snort out a laugh, then. What a stupid oversight.

 

“Okay,” Peter agreed. “Lesson learned. But I’m still not going to just let you go.” He aimed his webshooters at Deadpool, but then suddenly his spidey sense was tingling and he had to duck out of the way of the chair Deadpool threw at him. “Dude, did you seriously—  _ where did he go now?” _ Peter rushed to the window of the now empty room, leaning out to look for him, but there was no sign of him down on the street. “What the  _ heck _ ?” He twisted his head to look up, but there was no sign of him there, either.

 

Fuming, Peter scrambled out the window and up onto the roof. He scanned the streets, but there was no telltale flash of red— not even a blood trail, as far as he could tell. How on Earth did he manage it?

 

Peter scouted around the building, trying to spot any hint of the man with no luck, before eventually giving up as the sky began to lighten. As much as he’d like to track down the red-suited jokester, (why did that sound so familiar?), he had places to be.

 

He could hear the alarm ringing from outside Gwen’s window as he landed on the fire escape, careful not to rattle it loudly enough to alert the neighbors. Gwen was shifting inside, he could tell, so he settled down next to the window, staring out to the west. Gwen had a great view of the sunset between the buildings, this time of year, which has the secondary benefit of not shining the sun directly in his eyes while he waited out here for her in the mornings.

 

It was only a few minutes later that the window slid open next to him and he felt a rush of warmth from inside. 

 

“Peter?” Gwen’s voice came softly, and he turned to crawl inside, slipping his mask off his head and depositing it on the desk.

 

“Morning, Gwendy,” Peter answered quietly, letting her shut the window behind him. “Mm, it’s so warm in here.” He never realized how cold he was until he was getting warm again, he thought wistfully. She held her arms out to him and he stepped into her grip, hugging her back tightly.

 

“Did you have a good night?” There was concern in her tone, her fingers clutching at the fabric on his back. He knew that she worried about him, and it made him feel bad, but at least he knew that she supported him. “You’re so cold. You ought to take a shower.”

 

“I will,” he promised, pulling back so that he could look at her. She hadn’t brushed her hair, yet, so it was still messy from sleep, and he thought it was just as beautiful as her normally carefully groomed style. She had gotten dressed already, though, so he knew he wouldn’t have to go back out. Her face was flushed and her eyes were still sleepy, and Peter felt a stab of pain that clung tight to the love he felt for her. “I found those kidnappers.” At that, she brightened, pushing her hair back as she grew more attentive.

 

“Really? You did?” Peter watched as a smile spread across her face, relief replacing the stress he’d seen there. “Are the kids okay?”

 

“All accounted for,” he agreed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Probably home with their parents by now.”

 

“Was there a fight? Were you hurt?” Her hand cupped his cheek and he smiled cheerfully up at her. He wondered if she realized how fake it still felt.

 

“Nope! Well, yes, there was a fight,” he conceded, getting back into the swing of his usual speech. “But I’m not hurt. Look,” he tapped his other cheek, where a bruise was already fading. “This was the only hit they got, and it was because I didn’t realize there were three of them, at first. But then once they played  _ that _ little trump card, it was all over for them.” He gave her a confident grin that seemed to ease her nerves a little, and accepted the kiss on the injured cheek with a comforting flush of warmth. 

 

“I’m so proud of you, Peter,” Her expression was slightly awed when she leaned back, sitting down next to him. “You  _ saved _ those missing kids. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t been looking for them?” He looked down at his hands, shrugging bashfully.

 

“I’m just glad I could find them,” Peter admitted, feeling a little lighter. He was so glad to have Gwen on his side. It was easier, having someone know.

 

“You’re a hero,” she told him, as she often had over the past few days. He thought of the other night, the way she hadn’t even brought up the Spider-Man suit as he’d crawled through the window, falling into her arms with tears falling down his face. She had let the mask sit on the desk, exactly where it was right now, as she comforted him for hours. She’d told her parents that she was sick so that she could stay home with him, that day.

 

It had been that afternoon, when the apartment was quiet and the traffic was the only sound they could hear, that he’d told her everything she’d wanted to know. All the reasons he flaked on her, disappeared, showed up hurt so often. She’d listened, attentive, asking questions whenever he paused for breath, until her brothers had come home from school and they’d had to quiet down. Peter had changed out of his suit and they’d gone to sit on the fire escape.

 

He was pulled from his thoughts as she spoke again. “I have to get to school soon,” her hand slipped into his. “But I’m glad you came over. I worry about you, when you’re gone.”

 

“I know.” Peter leaned his head against her shoulder. “But don’t worry. I’ve got the Avengers backing me up, remember?” He smiled faintly, turning to touch his lips to the fuzzy sweater she was wearing.

 

“I wish you were coming with me,” Gwen sighed, touching her head to the top of his.

 

“I know,” Peter repeated, squeezing her hand. “But I can’t. It’s risky even being  _ here _ .”

 

“The police have come by twice,” she confided, and he nodded. He’d heard them from the roof, where he’d been hiding. “My dad’s keeping an eye on me, too.”

 

“I guess it makes sense,” Peter grimaced. “Where else would a runaway kid go but to his girlfriend’s place, right?”

 

“It’s so weird,” Gwen ran a hand through her hair, and he could hear her heart rate picking up as he settled his ear back against her shoulder. “You’re a  _ runaway _ .” She laughed uneasily. “Last month we were just… sophomores, trying to graduate, trying to get into a good college, plan for the future, worrying about… about stupid stuff, like essays and Christmas plans, and…” She trailed off for a moment. “There’s so much more at stake.” She leaned back and he sat up, meeting her gaze. “Are you sure this is what you want? Peter, you’re just fifteen. You should… have a home. More than just hiding out in my closet until my family is gone. You should be  _ safe _ .”

 

Peter shrugged, smiling wryly back at her. “It’s not ideal,” he admitted. “But this is just...temporary. I’m going to figure something out. Maybe I can get a fake ID, or something, and get a job? I don’t know. But I do know this: I’m not leaving New York. I’m not going to live with someone I’ve never met just because people think I’m not old enough to take care of myself.”

 

“Peter,”

 

“I’m going to work this out,” Peter insisted. “I just need a little time.”

 

“Well I want you to think of this as home until then,” Gwen answered firmly. “I mean, we’ll still have to hide you from my family, but… my room, at least, can be your room, too. You can leave your stuff here. If someone finds it, I’ll…” she drifted off, brow furrowed with thought. “I’ll say that you stopped by and asked me to keep it for you, but that I couldn’t get you to stay, and I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want it to get taken away, in case you came back for it.”

 

Peter considered that, a faint smile growing on his cheeks. He’d been in and out of Gwen’s house every day since his aunt—

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

He’d been in and out of Gwen’s house every day this week, but her insistence that he be here, have a place to rest, touch base with her, made him feel a little better. It wasn’t the same as being  _ home _ , but he thought maybe he could try. After all, he’d found a new home after his parents had died. Maybe this could be the same.

 

“Thanks, Gwen,” Peter answered sincerely. “I really can’t say how much that means to me.” Gwen nodded eagerly back at him, then glanced at the time again.

 

“I should finish getting dressed.” Peter let her slip away, watching as she started doing her hair.

 

“Have you ever heard of Deadpool?” He asked suddenly, and she looked over at him.

 

“Deadpool?” She repeated thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. What is that?” Peter grimaced.

 

“Some guy. A mercenary, I guess? I met him just a little while ago… he showed up to save one of those kids that had gotten kidnapped. Someone paid him to— to kill the kidnappers.” He felt uncomfortable just thinking about it. Gwen’s wide, worried eyes didn’t make him feel better.

 

“You met a mercenary?” She pressed, then laughed, but the sound lacked humor. “Peter, this Spider-Man thing,” she paused, then visibly braced herself as she turned to look at him straight on, arms crossing over her chest. “Are you sure this is safe? This is what you really want?” 

 

Peter rose, smiling just a little, for her sake. “I’m tough, Gwen,” he promised. “I know that you haven’t really seen any of that— since you found out, I haven’t really been… myself. But I promise, I can take care of myself. Just remember how you felt about Spider-Man before you knew that he was me. You knew he could take care of the city, right? Trust me, Gwen. I can do this.” He stepped forward and held her arms, eyes growing soft. “You trust me, right? You know I’ll always come back.”

 

Gwen hesitated, then nodded, reluctance slowly easing out of her expression. “You’re right. I worry, but I guess I shouldn’t. You have all these amazing powers—” she looked as if that was really just hitting her for the first time. “You can do all these amazing things, but you never show it.” Her hands rose to slip into his. “How strong are you, Peter? You’ve picked up  _ cars. _ ”

 

He shrugged, suddenly abashed. “I don’t know. I haven’t really found an upward limit, yet.”

 

“But you’ve never hurt me,” She added after a pause, and they shared another smile.

 

“I never will,” he promised. “Gwen, I’ll  _ never _ hurt you, okay? I’ll always keep you safe.” He leaned in to press a kiss to her lips and they lingered like that for a few moments before Gwen slipped away, nose wrinkling as her teasing face appeared.

 

“You stink,” she commented, waving one hand theatrically in front of her nose. “And I need to get going. My brothers are coming with me, and my mom should be gone in about ten more minutes. Then  _ you _ need to take a shower.” She poked him in the chest, right against the spider symbol on his suit. “And I recommend you wash your clothes, too. Text me if you need anything.”

 

“No phone,” Peter reminded her, opening his hands wistfully, and Gwen winced.

 

“Right. Okay. Well, we really need to do something about that.”

 

“If I do get another phone, I’ll have to be incognito in your contacts,” Peter reminded her, a mischievous grin on his cheeks as he let his time with Gwen drown out all the things he  _ should  _ be thinking about. “We’ll have to come up with something  _ really _ good.”

 

Gwen snickered, shaking her head at him as she crossed the room to tug her boots on and snatch up her school bag. “I’ll come up with something,” she promised, fingers landing on the door handle. “Now shush. Just ten minutes and you’ll have the run of the place, so be good. Get some rest, young man,” she said firmly, pointing a finger towards him. “Take a nap while your clothes wash, or something. I’ll see you after school.” She ducked out then before he could retort and Peter’s smile faded from his face. He glanced at the window, but then the connected bathroom and the thought of hot water on his still freezing skin tempted him into staying. He hopped up to the ceiling and settled into one corner, upside down, while he listened to the ruckus beyond the bedroom door. 

 

Gwen and her brothers all shouting as she tried to wrangle them out the door. Her mother was making coffee, if the clinking of the spoon matched with the rich aroma was any indication. Her father was gone already, he was sure: Captain Stacy worked early hours a lot of the time.

 

As Peter focused on decidedly on  _ not thinking _ , the sounds of Gwen and her family faded until finally Peter was alone.  

 

The hot water felt heavenly.

 

\---

 

Peter gaped at the sight before him, barely able to believe his luck.

 

“Why, Doctor!” He exclaimed, hand pressed to his chest. “You’re back from your sabbatical!” Doctor Octopus, the subject of his months-long search, was dangling off a building before him, a grimace smeared across his unpleasant face.

 

“Spider-Man,” he snarled back. “I’d hardly call it a sabbatical. In fact, you could say I’ve been rather gainfully employed.” The man sneered as Peter settled himself confidently on the rapidly clearing street, hands on his hips. The police were setting up barricades, already anticipating the battle to come. That was good. Peter just wished that the citizens would evacuate  _ further _ than the thirty or so yards the police had pushed them back. He couldn’t understand the need to ogle a fight between a superhero and a supervillain. He was pretty sure that Octavius had few qualms about letting harm come to any spectators and it seemed like that kind of thing would be public knowledge, by now.

 

As if to prove his point, Octavius dropped down to the road, those metal arms ripping the door off a car and hurling it directly towards him and the civilians behind him. Peter leapt to dodge and twisted, throwing a web out to catch the door and send it right back to the doctor.

 

“Come on,” he complained as the doctor swatted it out of the air and crashing first to a brick wall, then to the ground. “I know it’s been a while, but don’t you remember how this works? We take turns saying witty things to each other in between fighting. You don’t get to just interrupt my turn with a car door.”

 

“I’m beyond these childish games of yours, Spider-Man,” Doc Ock’s arms roiled aggressively. “In fact, I think I’m rather beyond  _ you _ , you infantile wretch. It’s time we end this.”

 

“Bring it on,” Peter agreed readily, launching himself back into the air and spraying webs towards the villain’s face.

 

He felt a cold chill in his stomach, though, as he dodged another thrown car door. He could hear the gasps from the onlookers, he could see Octavius grinning up at him as those arms shattered the asphalt below, but all he could think about was their last conflict— when he’d been thrown all those disorienting blocks and the doctor disappeared without a trace.

 

He shuddered, but steeled himself. He couldn’t let those civilians get hurt. Besides: he didn’t want whatever the doctor had been building all these months to see the light of day.

 

He couldn’t even bring himself to throw more jokes at the man: he was focusing. He had to get those arms out of the battle, somehow, but he had no idea where to begin. His webbing wasn’t very effective against them, and there were too many for him to keep occupied.

 

There were plenty of cars in the area, although he’d like to avoid destroying as many of those as possible. Spider-Man’s reputation was still kind of tenuous: plenty of people liked him, but that would change pretty fast if he started throwing people’s cars around.

 

Cafe tables. Good for throwing, sure, but not really heavy enough to cause any damage to the doctor. Even without those arms, a normal person could continue fighting after getting hit with a chair.

 

There was a bookstore across the street, but Peter wasn’t sure books would be any more help than the tables would.

 

The police barricade, made partially up of patrol cars and partly of those wooden rails that they managed to produce at times like this. 

 

As Peter mused, Doctor Octopus took the opportunity to launch forward, the sound of shattering glass wrenching the teen from his thoughts. He looked down to find Octavius climbing the building, claws punching through the windows of the building and closing on anything solid enough to support his weight.

 

“Crap,” Peter whispered, heart hammering, and he spun to start crawling up the building himself. He was much more maneuverable up here than the scientist was, he reasoned: Otto could throw himself around and hang off buildings and extend his arms, but he couldn’t match Peter’s webs.

 

“Running away, Spider-Man?” Octavius crowed over the sound of breaking building. “What happened to all that bravado of a moment ago?”

 

Peter threw a web over one shoulder as his spider sense began to tingle, alerting him that the doctor was getting close. He leapt off and away, then shot another web at his enemy, letting the man block with one arm. As his feet latched onto the building across the street, Peter used his new leverage to pull hard, surprising the older man and heaving him off balance, although the grip of those claws was too firm for him to lose his grip altogether.

 

“Aw, doc, I wouldn’t leave you behind.” Peter joked, yanking at the doctor again. “Here, I’ll even help you across.”

 

“I don’t think so,” A claw reached forward to snip the line of webbing away, but Peter landed two more on that arm, pulling harder, and he heard Octavius’s cry of frustration as he wobbled again. He could feel him trying to pull, too, but it seemed like they were about evenly matched.

 

Unfortunately, Dr. Octavius had three more of the those arms, each as strong as Peter was, he thought ruefully, watching as the new lines were snipped by another arm.

 

Okay. Webbing him up wasn’t really going to work unless he managed to take those claws out of commission. Maybe it was time to try something else.

 

Peter grinned under his mask, crouching against the building with his back flat against the wall. “Let me ask you something, doc,” he prompted, watching as the doctor gathered himself to leap across the street. Peter’s muscles coiled in anticipation. “I’ve been looking for you for  _ months _ . What are you doing out and about  _ today _ , after all this time? Got a hot date?”

 

“I believe I told you that I was tired of your chatter!” The crunching sound as those heavy arms pushed off the building made Peter flinch, but there wasn’t any time to waste. He jumped forward, too, throwing himself directly at the doctor, bodily colliding with him while those legs were still stretched out behind him. A strangled scream of fury wrenched from Ock’s throat as their momentum failed and they began to drop, the doctor grabbing at him, but Peter was quick to shoot his first web, then the second, suspending them in the street, out of immediate reach of either building.

 

Peter was out of time, then, because all four of those claws were arcing towards him. He reared a fist back, watching the horror light up in the angry face before him, but then he was grabbed by the elbow, and he cried out as the first claw tugged him out of the human grip and flung him outwards.

 

Peter stuck himself to the metal before it could let go _. _

 

The force hit his body terribly, and he cried out at the strain on his arm as he forced himself to cling to the inside of the claw, not allowing it to so much as open. Then he was swinging downwards and he shot another web, gasping with pain as it connected with a second arm. As much as dangling there from a possibly broken elbow hurt, he kept firing webs at Octavius, short, sticky blasts that forced him to keep one arm in front of him defensively. 

 

The man still had two arms left, though, and Peter felt his stomach drop as they grabbed his ankles and pulled down sharply. A cry of agony slipped out of Peter, despite himself, and he almost missed the sadistically pleased look on his adversary’s face as he let go of the first arm, dropping downwards as his weight tipped him backwards and upside down.

 

Might be a problem if he weren’t a particularly spidery guy, Peter thought, despite himself.

 

But he was a sitting duck like this, especially since he was facing away from Doc Ock, now. There were now two free arms and Peter was becoming increasingly terrified that he was going to get torn in half by the legs. He hastily pushed his upper body up, holding his injured elbow close to his chest as he forced his legs as close together as he could before wrapping both arms tight around the machinery, hoping to keep them together.

 

He had a great angle now to literally shoot the doctor right in the butt, and he was quick to do so, drawing a little halfhearted pleasure out of his undignified squawk of indignance that the doctor gave in reply, thrashing in a way that made them bounce in the air as the third arm came back around to block his target.

 

Then the final arm closed on the back of his neck and Peter’s spider sense screamed. Relinquishing his grip on the two arms, his hands flew to the claw and he grabbed for the fingers of it, terrified that it was going to break his spine.

 

No point in being nice, now. He yanked back and broke two of the fingers off, another moan of pain pouring like water from his lips even as the doctor screamed with rage and dropped him completely.

 

Peter heard the screams from the onlookers— he’d almost forgotten them— when he almost didn’t catch himself in time. He barely managed to land on his feet, staggering several paces as he gripped his arm tightly to his chest again, head bowed, as he tried to stifle a whimper. He had to finish this. He wasn’t going to be effective forever with a broken arm.

 

He turned back to look up at the doctor, who appeared to be debating whether or not he should cut the threads holding him nearly six stories above the road. His arms  _ might _ catch him, Peter suspected, but it looked like he wasn’t the only one who had some misgivings about that.

 

Peter didn’t allow himself to wait around. He didn’t think that he’d be able to do a whole lot of swinging around, like this, and he sure didn’t want to start climbing buildings with one arm basically out of commission.

 

Okay.

 

Peter looked around him, trying to find some advantage, but it seemed that the good doctor was about done waiting. Peter felt his senses tingling and he looked up to see Otto cutting both strands of web at once, quickly entering freefall. Those arms came down faster, this time, and Peter leapt out of the way as they crunched through the asphalt again. He thought, unbidden, of what force like that would have done to  _ him. _ He was tough, sure, but— 

 

His thoughts were interrupted by another aggressive rush from the mad scientist, and Peter was momentarily stricken with terror by the sight of the man, suspended in the air as all four arms tore up pavement, racing towards him. It looked so bizarrely animalistic that he almost froze up, but the screams from the onlookers reminded him that he couldn’t afford to fail, here.

 

Peter jumped, managing to mostly avoid the arms, although the one with just one finger left did manage to graze his leg. Much to his dismay, he could see the tear in the suit was matched by one in the skin underneath. He’d been only a few inches off from being hamstrung, he thought, and as he spun to lock eyes with the following villain, he saw that he’d come to the same realization. That… was not ideal.

 

“Spider-Man! Submit and I may just spare your life!” The man demanded, but Peter just flashed him a thumbs up.

 

“You have to catch me if you want to kill me,” he pointed out as he managed a second dodge. This one was less graceful by far, thanks to the injury in his leg, but he was still  _ fast _ . Those metal arms were quick, but they couldn’t keep up with Peter putting his full attention into dodging.

 

“That’s an excellent point,” Dr. Octavius hissed, a sinister grin rising to his face. “I suppose I’ll have to make you come to me.”

 

“And how do you—” he paused in order to throw himself out of arm’s reach again. “Intend to do that? I’m not coming over there!”

 

“Oh, I think you will.” He turned abruptly away from Peter, surprising the teen, but that surprise turned to horror as Octavius went skittering towards the gathered civilians, who screeched and began to scatter.

 

“No!” Peter chased after him, throwing himself forward in an attempt to grab the man, but an arm wrapped around him, first. Obviously it was a trap. _ Obviously.  _ But Peter wasn’t going to let anyone else get hurt because of his own shortcomings. 

 

The arms tightened around him and he cried out as it squeezed his abdomen, fingers scrabbling at the arm. He couldn’t see the claw, it must be behind him, but his grip settled on two of the links and he stuck, holding tight with his bad arm and twisting  _ hard _ with the good.

 

The metal’s scream as it was twisted was joined by Octavius’s outraged cry, but Peter didn’t let go, just continuing to twist, hearing things pop and snap inside until the grip on his waist slackened. He tried to squirm out of the coiled metal, breaths coming hard and fast.

 

“You  _ miserable wretch! _ ” Doc Ock was still screaming, seething, the ruined arms squirming weakly below the point Peter had wrecked, but it was clearly seriously damaged. “You’ll  _ pay for this _ !” The two unharmed claws grabbed at his wrists and Peter didn’t even have time to try and pull away before they contracted and he felt bone crunching.

 

He screamed through gritted teeth, tears pricking at his eyes. His head was spinning, stomach lurching, and he nearly slumped over, but he didn’t have a choice. Those arms could  _ kill him _ . They  _ would _ . He had to finish this  _ now _ .

 

Otto hauled Peter close by his wrists, the limp arm falling away. The man was glaring at him, spitting curses, but Peter wasn’t listening. He ignored the agony rocking his body and used the leverage of those arms to swing his leg up and straight into the side of Octavius’s head along his jaw.

 

He tried his best to hold back. He really did. But Dr. Octavius’s head snapped to the side and he immediately slumped, dropping to the ground and Peter’s first, horrified instinct told him that he had killed the man.

 

“Oh god,” he gasped, the arms releasing him. “Oh, god. Doc—  _ crap _ , oh no.” He could hear cheering and clapping behind him but he dropped to his knees, leaning in close as the arms flailed above him, still apparently seeking a target to destroy. The arms were pounding against the ground, swishing through the air, skittering against the asphault, and for a moment, Peter couldn’t hear anything from the doctor.

 

Then he saw his chest moving, rising and falling slowly and he flooded with relief that momentarily blocked out his own pain.

 

It didn’t last long.

 

Peter stood and staggered back a few steps, arms held painfully against his chest. He needed to immobilize those arms so that the police could arrest Doc Ock.

 

He looked down at his wrists: his webshooters were dangling uselessly from his wrists, completely shattered. It was a miracle that he hadn’t lost them.

 

He looked again at the flailing arms, watching as they swapped between waving in the air and crashing destructively against the ground. Slowly, fumblingly, Peter moved one hand to the web cartridges on his belt. He didn’t dare try and move his fingers enough to pluck one of them off, but a careful brush over the belt allowed him to stick to several and pull them free.

 

He looked back at the arms and gingerly tossed them over, waiting patiently until one arm slammed down on the pressurized canisters, exploding them in a white, gooey gunk that drenched the doctor, pinning him to the street.

 

He rounded the man, noting with relief that the thick layer was too much for even the functioning arms to worm through. At least, not yet.

 

He crouched down at the edge of the mound, carefully reaching down to pull the webbing away from the doctor’s face, telling himself that the tear stains on his mask wouldn’t be visible behind the webbing design. He stared down at the man, feeling drained. He’d expected to feel more vindicated, he supposed. He’d expected the thrill of well-served justice. He’d expected  _ closure. _

 

He just hurt.

 

Peter stood up, noticing several of the policemen running towards them.

 

“Spider-Man!” It was Captain Stacy, Peter realized with a muted discomfort. He was running into the man a lot these days. “Are you injured?” His voice was crisp and sharp, but there was a flash of concern in his expression.

 

“I heal,” Peter promised, and he noticed their expressions shifting further at the flat tone of his voice.

 

“There are ambulances here,” Captain Stacy told him, although his eyes were on Doctor Octopus, now. “You should let them take a look.” Peter just shook his head. They would want him to go to the hospital. They might connect the dots between himself and Peter Parker. He wasn’t going to the hospital. He would… he would figure something out. He tried to control his ragged breathing as he tried to assure himself that his wrists would heal. He would be fine. He was  _ always _ fine.

 

“I’ve really got to be going,” Peter told him with a shrug, taking a step backwards and staggering. Oh, right— his leg was hurt, too. He’d forgotten.

 

“Spider-Man,” another police officer spoke up, argumentative, but Peter just shook his head again, more firmly this time.

 

“I’m going. I don’t know how long that webbing will last— it’s thicker than usual, so it might be longer. I don’t know who might be able to disable those arms, but I’d definitely recommend getting someone over here as soon as possible.” He turned on his heel then and strode away, agonizing over how he was going to get out of here. No web shooters, no hands.

 

“Spider-Man!” The third officer tried, sounding exasperated and worried at the same time, but Peter just broke into a jog, disappearing from their line of sight.

 

He collapsed into an alley at dusk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little shorter than most of the others, but since my goal is only 10k per chapter and this one's just over 12k, it's still good :)
> 
> Fun fact, the first scene, up until Peter climbed in Gwen's window, was originally the end of chapter four, but my alpha reader convinced me to cut it off right at the Happy New Year in order to keep the chapters separated by month (even though chapter six is ALSO going to be january...).
> 
> I promise things will be okay in the end just stick with me
> 
> I can't wait to hear from you guys! Happy New Year, btw :D


	6. Never Don't Not Worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one came so easily omg it's so nice to have it FLOWING again.
> 
> Knock on wood.

**January**

 

It was well after dark by the time Bucky found Spider-Man.

 

The news had come in hours ago. Spider-Man had fought one of his more dangerous villains, and while he’d been ultimately successful, reports stated that he’d been badly injured in the fight. Stark had immediately activated the tracker that he had, apparently, managed to convince Spider-Man to take and Steve had mobilized the team. Three taps into the comms produced no response, which only sent them into a frenzy.

 

It surprised him, a little, how deeply they all seemed to care for the kid, but, then again, he knew how much they all worried about him, even if they liked to hide it.

 

It had been distressing for a large part of the team, especially Stark, when the tracker had led them only to the site of the battle, encased in a pile of webbing that authorities were still struggling to remove the cursing villain from. A quick word from the police had tipped them off as far as what direction the vigilante had run; but from there, the clues trailed off soon after the blood did.

 

They split up and kept looking.

 

Bucky had been roaming the alleys and back streets for hours, suspecting that the kid might try to hide if he was hurt. That was assuming that he hadn’t managed to make it home, of course, but from what the cops had said, it seemed unlikely that he’d managed to hole up somewhere. Only the occasional report from the others— all negative, no one seeing hide nor hair of the young man, distracted him from his search.

 

He was rewarded, however grimly, when he spotted a single leg extended out of a pile of trash, half obscured by the dumpster. There was no mistaking that pattern. He turned and strolled towards the kid, deciding to make sure he was alive before alerting the others.

 

“Spider-Man,” he said, and saw the boot twitch.

 

“James?” Came a cracking voice, and as the man rounded the obstruction, he had to wince with sympathy at the sight before him. 

 

Someone else might have been distracted by the cuts in his suit or the way he was slumped over in a heap of trash bags, but Bucky noticed immediately the way he held his arms unnaturally to his chest. He saw the crushed technology still dangling from his wrists, the way his fingers didn’t so much as twitch, despite the unnatural angle at which his hands sat.

 

“Jesus, kid,” he sighed, shaking his head as his own arms crossed over his chest. “You’re not lookin’ so hot.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Spider-Man joked weakly, and Bucky smiled ruefully. Joking, now? “I’ve never felt sexier.” His head tipped to one side, lolling on his shoulder. “I’m just waiting for my photographer to show up. I’m doing a pinup shoot in a few minutes.”

 

“I bet that’ll be a big hit,” Bucky agreed dryly. “Hey, kid, do me a favor real quick,” he tapped the comm in his ear once, sending the casual signal to Spider-Man’s headset. “Prove to me it’s really you.”

 

Spider-Man lifted one elbow, but then winced sharply as his hand shifted and lowered it again. “I— I can’t reach it.” He sounded nervous, as if worried that Bucky was going to assume he were the imposter immediately. “I promise I have it. You can hit it, if you want.” He turned his head more fully away from Bucky. “It’s on this side.”

 

Bucky frowned slightly, but stepped forward, preparing for attack, just in case, but he reached down to feel for the device and found it easily. A single tap sounded the beep in his ears, and, he was sure, that of everyone else.

 

“Alright, kid. I’m calling the team. You know they’ve been worried sick about you? You lost your tracker, by the way.”

 

“Worried? Wait, you traced that thing?” He sounded displeased, and Bucky shrugged, unrepentant.

 

“We heard what happened,” he agreed. “Heard you got hurt and wouldn’t take anybody’s help. Thought we’d check in. At least this explains why you didn’t answer us.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Spider-Man replied miserably. “I tried. I just… couldn’t.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, holding his finger down against his comm to open a line. “Found the kid. He’s alive, but hurt. Looks like multiple broken bones, possible leg injuries. What else, kid?”

 

“I’m fine,” he tried, but Bucky interrupted.

 

“Shut the fuck up, kid. Jesus. Okay. Definitely in need of medical, in any case.”

 

“No!” Spider-Man lurched upright in the trash and Bucky saw him double over from the pain before he managed to stagger fully to his feet. “No hospitals.”

 

“Did I say hospital?” Bucky asked flatly, half-listening to the clamor over the line as Stark announced a transport on the way. “No. I said medical.”

 

Spider-Man was practically swaying on his feet. Even masked, Bucky could tell he was in bad shape. Now that he was standing, he could see sweat drenching the costume. It was  _ January. _ The kid had been out here for hours already. He must be freezing.

 

Bucky shucked off his jacket and slung it over Spider-Man’s frame, who stiffened, staring at him.

 

“Um,” A brief pause. “Thank you?”

 

“We’re going to take you back to the tower,” Bucky told him. “No arguments. You’re getting checked out. It’ll help you get through it all faster if you tell me what happened now instead of hemming and hawing while we all stand around like jackasses.”

 

Spider-Man was quiet for a moment. It was somewhat worrisome that he wasn’t chattering the way he normally did, but he supposed it wasn’t totally unexpected. He looked like he was hurting, and he probably wasn’t used to it. “I think my right elbow is broken,” he admitted. “And obviously my wrists. And, um, the back of my leg has a pretty bad cut. But that’s really just about it.”

 

“A cut on the back of your leg and you decide to sit in trash?” Bucky would have rolled his eyes if that were even just a little less stupid. As it was, it was  _ really _ stupid. Way too dumb to joke about. “Okay. We can work with that. You’ve got some kind of healing factor?” Spider-Man nodded mutely. “Your bones might not heal right: your hands sure as  _ hell _ look pretty screwed up. How’d they break? Not clean, I’m thinking.”

 

“I think they’re crushed,” Spider-Man’s voice was low: significantly quieter than Bucky’s following curse.

 

“You should have come to the tower straight away,” Bucky told him, scowling. “You  _ need  _ to get those looked at. Stupid kid. Come on. Let’s move out to where the others will be able to see us. I think they’ve got a car coming to pick you up.” Spider-Man nodded faintly, took one step, then stopped.

 

“What’s going to happen?” He asked warily.

 

“You’ll probably need surgery,” Bucky told him bluntly, and he saw Spider-Man cringe.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“You will.”

 

“No, you don’t understand—” 

 

“No, kid,” Bucky interrupted sharply. “It’s pretty damn apparent that  _ you _ don’t understand. This kind of injury could ruin your hands forever if you don’t get it taken care of.” Spider-Man’s head ducked, his shoulders shifting in a way that Bucky recognized. He sighed. “What’s the issue, here? Are you scared to go under the knife?”

 

“It’s not really that,” Spider-Man’s voice was a whisper now, halting and broken, as if he were ashamed. Maybe he was. “It’s more… I have a secret identity, you know? And I’m… I’m just not willing to let that go. There are things… that I don’t want people to know about me. It would make it too easy to find out who I was. And I just can’t let that happen. Besides: maybe Mr. Stark would build me some cool mechanical hands.”

 

The joke fell flat and there was a long silence between the two of them while Spider-Man stared at the pavement, beginning to visibly shake. Bucky wasn’t sure if it was because of pain, exhaustion, or the cold. It was Spider-Man who broke the silence first.

 

“Look, James—” Alright, that was enough.

 

“Call me Bucky, for Christ’s sake.” Spider-Man looked at him with what Bucky assumed was surprise. “I know I told you my name was James, but just call me Bucky.” He shifted his weight, chest feeling heavy. “I get it, kid, I do. The secret identity shit. But you’re going to need surgery, I’ll tell you that right now.” Another painful silence.

 

“Can I stay awake, during?” He asked, and his voice was tight with fear, but Bucky respected it anyway.

 

“Probably not a good idea,” Bucky answered neutrally. “You might try to move.” Those red-clad shoulders slumped and he sighed internally. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Is that an Aladdin reference?” Spider-Man quipped, then subsided when he realized that Bucky didn’t know what he was talking about. “I…” More quiet as the kid rolled that around in his head.

 

“Do you think I’d take off your mask if I found you unconscious?” Bucky clarified. The kid didn’t seem to fully trust  _ any  _ of them, which honestly just struck him as pragmatic.

 

“No,” Spider-Man answered, more confidently, now.

 

“Do you think I’d let anyone else?”

 

Spider-Man seemed to brighten, clearly jumping ahead along Bucky’s line of questioning. “You’ll stay with me?” He guessed. “And make sure they keep my mask on?”

 

“Right,” He agreed, and he could hear a sigh of relief from behind the fabric.

 

“Okay,” Spider-Man relented, audibly set at ease. He climbed out of the pile of trash. “Hey, um, how long until the car gets here, do you think?”

 

“ETA?” Bucky asked his earpiece.

 

“Two minutes,” Came Steve’s voice, and Bucky relayed his words, watching as Spider-Man nodded nervously, shifting a little from foot to foot.

 

“I need to make a call,” Spider-Man said suddenly. “Can I borrow your phone? And, um, also, can you dial it for me? And not tell anyone that I called anybody?” Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes.

 

“Secret identities seem like a pain in the ass,” he scoffed, fishing out his clunky old phone that Stark hated because it wasn’t  _ his. _ It didn’t matter, Bucky thought with amusement. He only ever really used it to bother Steve anyway. “What’s the number?” The kid recited it off and Bucky punched it in. Then, dry, slightly amused expression on his face, he helped the kid tuck it between his shoulder and his ear as it rang. Spider-Man turned a quarter angle away, as if that would give him privacy. It was weird how he lifted his head back into a normal position and the phone just kind of stuck to the side of his face.

 

“Hey, it’s, um, it’s me,” Spider-Man said as the person on the other end answered. Bucky could faintly hear a female voice on the other end, but he couldn’t pick up what she was saying. “Yeah, I know, I’m okay. Sorry you worried.” A slight tilt of his head tipped Bucky off that the young hero was looking at him. “I’m actually… not going to be able to pick you up, tonight. I’m really sorry.” There was a pause where the woman on the other end spoke, her voice sounding concerned. “I’m sorry anyway. Just… be careful, okay? I’m probably not going to be home tonight.” Interesting, Bucky thought. Wife? Girlfriend? Maybe a mother or sister? He wondered if he would keep his implied promise not to spread it around that Spider-Man had made a call to a woman on his phone. “Or maybe tomorrow. I’m really not sure how long it’s going to be, honestly. But I’m okay, I promise. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? I know.” Another glance towards Bucky before a softer response: “I love you, too. Take care.” Girlfriend. Definitely girlfriend. Spider-Man waited a moment longer before turning back to Bucky.

 

“Thank you,” the hero said earnestly. “I just… didn’t want her to worry about me.” Bucky nodded, reaching out to grip the phone and he felt it come away easily. That was  _ so _ creepy. Damn super powers. He didn’t know why he hung around with these weirdos. He wished he could think that thought without feeling so damn  _ affectionate  _ about it. He was losing his edge.

 

“Sure,” Bucky agreed, pocketing the phone and his hands immediately after. “Let’s go, I think that’s the car.” He jerked his head towards the street nearby, where a sleek black vehicle was idling at the curb. As the two of them stepped forward, out of the alley, the back passenger window slid open and Stark leaned forward, those stupid tech-stuffed sunglasses on his face even in the dead of night.

 

“JARVIS,” the man’s smooth, nonchalant voice came from inside. “Confirm identities, please.” 

 

Bucky ignored him, popping open the door as JARVIS proclaimed that “Mr. Stark, Mr. Barnes, and Mr. Spider-Man all meet identity requirements.”

 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, then leaned back, watching as Spider-Man and Bucky climbed into the car, settling into the seats across from him. “So Spidey,” he said, voice casual and cool in the way that said he was about to start ranting, but the younger hero cut him off before he got the chance.

 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I know you were worried about me. I tried to call, I just… couldn’t really… use my hands.” The last of his words twisted like they hurt more than his wrists did, and Stark grimaced. 

 

“No kidding. What the hell, kid? Why didn’t you call for backup before it got that bad?”

 

“Can we maybe lay off the ‘kid’ thing for a while?” Spider-Man asked, sounding tired. “I was kind of busy: I wasn’t really thinking about it. I’ve worked alone this long, you know, I guess it just doesn’t register that that’s an option. Besides…” He trailed off. “Dr. Octavius isn’t the kind of guy you guys usually deal with, right? He’s like… a Queens villain. My villain. You know?”

 

“Yeah, k--” he broke off, then corrected himself. “Spider-Man. I get it. Doesn’t mean I like it. It sure as hell is ten kinds of stupid and irresponsible, but hey, a guy’s entitled to his vendettas. So what is it with you two? Grudge match? Personal history? Mentor-student relationship gone bad?” Spider-Man snorted, but shook his head before dropping it back against the headrest, apparently overcome by exhaustion.

 

“Nothing like that. I just…” a beat of silence, followed by an unexpected explosion of words. Bucky got the feeling that he wanted to be gesticulating wildly to go along with it. “This guy almost feels like karma. Back when I first started fighting crime, when I first… when I first got my abilities, I was getting really cocky really fast. I was just so much stronger and faster and more agile than your average mugger, you know? I remember thinking: ‘this is too easy. I almost wish it were more of a challenge’. Then… I met Dr. Octavius.”

 

A sigh. “He’d been through some kind of accident, I think. He’s a brilliant atomic researcher, you know— or, I guess, he was? Anyway, he somehow got fused to these arms he made and I think it drove him crazy—  _ anyway _ , I was saying that it felt like karma? Yeah, that’s right, because I was getting cocky and wanting a challenge and then  _ he _ shows up and he’s strong and fast and smart, too, and he beats the tar out of me. It takes everything I’ve got to beat him the first time, and he ends up in Ravencroft, then he shows up here again a few months ago and he beats me  _ again _ . So this time was like, a big showdown, I guess? But it kind of feels like  _ every _ time I fight him is a big showdown. We’re really evenly matched, you know? He’s… tough to beat.” He laughed, a somewhat bitter sound that seemed to surprise Stark. Hell, it surprised Bucky, too. The kid was normally so cheerful and happy-go-lucky that it was strange to hear something like that coming from him. “So yeah, it kind of feels almost like… it’s my fault that he’s out here, terrorizing New York. And heck, I know it’s not  _ really _ my fault— I wasn’t around when the bad things happened to him. But it still  _ feels _ like that, you know? It’s… too opportunely timed to really feel like a coincidence.”

 

Stark opened his mouth, but then Spider-Man doubled over, shaking, and it took Bucky a second to realize that it wasn’t tears, but rather hysterical laughter pouring out of the young man. “I—” Spider-Man choked on his words, and as Bucky watched him, he could see the kid’s fingers twitching weakly, still clutched to his chest. That must hurt like a bitch. “I just— can you believe the odds? There are  _ so many  _ scientifically-minded superheroes, Mr. Stark, there are  _ so many. _ It only makes sense that there would be just as many villains The whole world is going  _ crazy _ with super powers right now. Why the heck didn’t we see super powers through such a large period of history? They’re all over the place now.”

 

“Spidey,” Stark sounded kind of uncomfortable. “You need to calm down. You’re freaking out and I really need you to not be freaking out right now. It’s not helping.” Despite his words, Spider-Man couldn’t seem to stop giggling. The noise was almost painful to hear.

 

“I just— can you believe it? There are more than seven  _ billion _ humans on Earth, right now. And somehow  _ we  _ ended up as superheroes.” His face was practically buried in his knees, probably crushing his hands, but when Bucky reached out to grip his shoulder and pull him back up, he found that he couldn’t move him. He and Stark exchanged a somber glance, and Bucky let go of the young hero. “We were all basically normal once— well, not  _ you _ , Mr. Stark…” That produced another fit of uncontrollable chortling into his knees before he managed to gasp out the rest of his thought. 

 

“And now we’re, we’re this, we’re flying around in metal suits, or being one of the most famous assassins in history, or becoming some spidery creep swinging around the city fighting guys who want him dead before he even—” His voice choked off and something changed in the sound of it as his words sped up.

 

“And it doesn’t matter what we do because no matter how hard we try, we still end up losing everything and we have to deal with what’s left behind. No matter how hard we try to make things work, the world is just out to get us, you know? Like karma only works one way. It doesn’t like to give us good things, it only wants to  _ take.  _ Mr. Stark, you have a big chunk out of your chest! How nuts is that? Do you ever think about how crazy that is? And— and Bucky lost his arm. And I’ve lost— I lost—”

 

“Spider-Man,” Stark’s voice was quiet but firm. “We’re going to save your hands. You’re not going to lose them.” 

 

Whatever reaction Stark and Bucky had been expecting, it wasn’t the immediate aching wail that came from the hunched young man. He was crying like it was the end of the world, and something inside Bucky twisted uncomfortably.

 

He barely knew this kid. He didn’t know his face, or his name, or anything about his life, but he knew the sound of those desperate gasps, struggling to breathe through panic so thick it clogged his lungs and shredded his throat. 

 

Another look at Stark told him that he knew it, too.

 

“Spider-Man,” Stark said again. “Breathe.”

 

“I can’t,” The kid gasped, shaking his head. He couldn’t seem to stop sobbing, either.

 

“Roll the mask up,” Bucky told him. “You don’t have to talk. Just roll it up over your nose, then sit up.” Spider-Man sat where he was for a few moments, then yanked his mask up over his nose as instructed with a short cry of pain and jerked back, head tossed back against the seat.

 

His mouth was hanging open as he sucked in air: loud, ragged pants that were clearly scaring the shit out of the young hero. He was shaking, shuddering in his seat, but his hands still stayed right where they were. Bucky realized that they must be stuck to his chest. That was one of his powers, right? He had to give it to the kid; he was smart, even at a time like this.

 

“Just breathe,” Stark told him again. “Slow and steady. Don’t hyperventilate.” 

 

“That’s not  _ helping _ ,” Spider-Man snapped, voice high and tight, and Bucky couldn’t tell for sure, but he sounded  _ young _ . He hoped that it was just the stress, but he decided not to say anything to anyone else, either way. He’d seen younger soldiers in his day, and it would be low to use a moment like this against him in the ongoing investigation into his identity.

 

Stark didn’t seem to notice, he just scowled and fidgeted in his seat until he leaned forward. “We’re almost to the tower, kid. We’re going in the back, so no one will really see, don’t worry. We’ll get you up to medical and get you calmed down, then we’ll see what we can do for the rest of you, okay?”

 

Spider-Man’s head swung towards Bucky, and he saw that jaw jut forward stubbornly and remembered his promise. “The mask will stay on,” he swore. “I’ll make sure of it. Okay? So just relax.” A jerky, uneven nod was his only answer as the young hero turned his face back towards the ceiling again, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

 

No breath coaching was going to get the kid through this, Bucky knew, so he just left the kid alone. He was probably humiliated enough as it was.

 

It was only moments later that they pulled into the loading bay at Stark Tower. Few deliveries were being made at this time of night, so there was no one around to witness the gurney that emerged from the double doors to cart Spider-Man upstairs.

 

The young man— teenager? — didn’t protest as the medical team gave him a shot. Some kind of sedative, he thought. The kid was still gasping like a fish out of water, painful, rapid breaths that were, thankfully, not phasing the medics, but he seemed like he was calming down by the time they exited the express elevator.

 

Bucky followed the gurney as it was wheeled down the hall, and the doctor tried to stop him at the door, but Bucky just shouldered past without a word, staying right next to Spider-Man, who was staring at him, now, breaths beginning to come more easily. Bucky helped him roll his mask back down.

 

He stayed with him during the talk with the doctor— Spider-Man was, amazingly, still lucid enough to describe his injuries in detail. Apparently he was going to be a heavy-dose kind of guy. 

 

He stayed with him during the x rays and the readings shortly after: the bones didn’t look good, to say the least, and they were already beginning to heal improperly. Surgery was going to have to begin more quickly than they’d hoped. His altered physiology might be a problem, since they were going in blind, but Spider-Man agreed to the surgery. They all knew it was necessary, if the hero wanted to live a normal life, let alone continue his work.

 

Bucky stayed with him while they prepped the kid for surgery. He was clearly afraid, but no one dared give him any more sedatives until it was time to put him under. Bucky felt those eyes coming back to him over and over again, so he stepped forward and put his flesh hand on the kid’s shoulder.

 

He calmed down.

 

Bucky stayed.

 

\---

 

When Peter woke up, the first thing he noticed was how  _ warm _ he was. He shifted, feeling thin blankets moving above him and starched sheets underneath. He smelled the chemicals, next, cleaning chemicals that he remembered smelling in the hospital. He cringed, mouth twisting a little.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Don’t think about—

 

“Spidey?”

 

Peter opened his eyes to find Bucky leaning over him, a frown on his face. He blinked, watching as the man studied him, trying to determine if he was awake. He tried to reach up and touch his mask, verify that it was still in place, but he found himself restrained.

 

His heart kicked up in his chest and was accompanied by an increased rate in the beeping he hadn’t noticed, before. A heart monitor, he thought, lifting his head. Bucky leaned out of his field of view as he looked down at his hands. They were in splints, and Bucky’s metal hand was sitting on his forearm, keeping him from pulling it up.

 

“It’s over?” He asked, sounding bleary even to his own ears.

 

“Should I even bother answering that?” Bucky drawled, and Peter turned in time to catch him rolling his eyes.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You’ve asked that three times already, kid.” Bucky was looking at him with consideration. “You seem a little more lucid, this time. Do you know where you are?”

 

“Um,” Peter closed his eyes, laying his head back as he thought about it. “Stark Tower, right? I… had surgery. Doc Ock broke my wrists.” He felt his fingers twitch. “Did everything go okay?” Bucky snorted and Peter decided to look at him again.

 

“Yeah, Spidey,” Peter noticed the nickname. He didn’t think Bucky had used that for him, before today. “Everything went fine. You’ve got a pretty decent healing factor knocking around in there, don’t you?”

 

“Mm. I guess. I try not to test it too much.”

 

“Good,” Bucky scoffed. “Well, the doctor will probably tell you as much whenever she shows back up, but your accelerated healing is really helping you out, now. Normally someone with this kind of injury would be in splints for weeks. You’re almost healed already.”

 

“Almost healed?” Peter looked over at him. “How almost healed are we talking?” Everything still felt warm and fuzzy, but he was pretty sure he was retaining the information.

 

“You’ll probably be fine in another day or so,” Bucky leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “I’d  _ kill _ for that kind of healing.”

 

“Please don’t,” Peter joked weakly, looking down at his hands again. There were a few moments of silence, then Bucky spoke up again.

 

“No one looked, if you were wondering.” 

 

Peter’s head lolled over to look at him again. “Yeah, I know,” There was a slight smile visible where the mask was still rolled up. “You’d be treating me different, if they had. And probably Mr. Stark would be here to yell at me. And… maybe the police. Oh, no,” His heart rate noticeably picked up again as he wet his lips. “My voice modulator.”

 

Bucky shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, kid. No one else has heard you talk but me and Stark, and I think he was a little too preoccupied to notice your voice.” He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. “And sure, I’m curious. But it’s not my business how old you are. Far as I’m concerned, you’re Spider-Man. That’s all I need to know.”

 

Peter felt a loosening in his chest. “Thanks, Bucky.” The man shrugged one shoulder.

 

“Don’t mention it. I’ve kept plenty of secrets in my time. No point not keeping this one, too. Now we’d better get that mask back down, now that you’re awake for good.” He reached forward, then paused. “You’re awake for good, right?”

 

“I might take a nap,” Peter admitted. “I’m still tired. But I can sleep with it down, it’s fine.” Bucky shrugged, then leaned forward to roll the mask down for him. “Thanks.” It was a relief to hear his modified voice again.

 

“Stop thanking me,” Bucky instructed him. “Or I’m leaving you here by yourself.”

 

“Just imagine that I’m zipping my lips,” Peter quipped back. “I would, obviously, but I think that under the circumstances, I’d better not.”

 

“Jesus,” the man hissed, looking vaguely annoyed, although Peter got the sense that it was put on. “You’re like Steve. That’s what this is. You’re like Steve when he was just a scrawny little shit, always getting into fights, always had to have the last word,  _ god _ , I thought we were  _ past  _ those days once he got all beefed up. Now I’ve got  _ you _ hanging around. What a nightmare.”

 

“I can’t decide which to comment on,” Peter replied. “The fact that you’re comparing me to your best friend, or the fact that you’re comparing me to  _ Captain America. _ Awesome.” He closed his eyes, grinning a little. “Hey,” he twitched his fingers again. “Guess what.”

 

“What?” Bucky asked dryly.

 

“Whatever pain pills they have me on are  _ really nice _ .” That made Bucky snort a laugh, and when Peter glanced his way, the man had a hand pressed to his face.

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

Peter was still laughing when the doctor walked in, and he saw a smile spread over her face at the sight of the two of them.

 

“Good morning, Spider-Man,” she said, settling her clipboard against her chest as she strode over to them. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Good morning, doctor…” he paused, trying to remember her name. Last night had been kind of a long blurr of pain, and now he was kind of stoned. Oh! That was it. “Dr. Stone,” he said, almost proudly, and her smile widened with amusement. “I feel better. A  _ lot  _ better. Like, completely better.”

 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Dr. Stone answered. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’re going to take another x ray shortly to check on your healing. Until then, let’s continue acting as if you were a normal patient who had surgery last night, for safety’s sake. What do you say?”

 

“Okay,” Peter agreed, chagrined.

 

“Let’s check on those stitches, shall we?” Dr. Stone stepped up to the left side of his bed. Her hands were gentle but efficient as she unstrapped the brace, displaying a layer of bandages underneath. Peter shifted his fingers again, testing them, and Dr. Stone shot him a reproachful look. “Hold still, please.”

 

“Sorry.” The doctor began carefully unwrapping the bandages with gloved hands, and Peter had to resist the urge to flex his wrist, to test it out. It  _ felt _ normal while it was sitting still like this. He lifted his head to watch as his skin came visible and wrinkled his nose at the sight. The skin was bruised, several cuts scabbed over. The shape looked more or less right, though, he was relieved to note. It was still pretty gross to see the neat line of stitches down the inside of his wrist, where they must have gone in. “Look at this,” the doctor said, practically envious. “I wish all my patients could heal this quickly. We can go ahead and take these out, actually: the incision is all healed up.” Despite her words she continued to examine the mostly healed line. “You know, it was actually something of a problem while we were operating,” she admitted. “It was… very strange, operating on someone with a healing factor. We couldn’t  _ see  _ things moving, but they certainly were.”

 

“What do you mean?” Peter prompted, interested. The doctor stood up, fetching a tray with shining silver tools on it from a line of cabinets near the bed. 

 

“You were healing while we were working,” Dr. Stone looked at him. “Your bones trying to knit back together on their own, although they weren’t exactly correct. Not correct enough to leave alone, certainly. Still, it was impressive.”

 

“Um… thanks,” Peter smiled awkwardly under his mask. “Wish I could take the credit.”

 

Dr. Stone smiled, too, placing the tray on the table next to his bed before reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Alright, Spider-Man, you’ll probably want to sit up. Don’t use your hands, we’ll help you. Mr. Barnes, if you don’t mind,” Bucky nodded in his periphery, then stood to steady his other shoulder. “One, two, three,” She counted calmly and steadily and then she and Bucky were helping him sit up, leaning him against the headboard. “How does that feel?”

 

“Kind of…” Peter blinked, surprised by the way his head spun. He’d assumed he felt pretty much normal up until that point. “How much drugs did you give me?”

 

“How much—” Bucky shook his head disdainfully. “ _ How much drugs _ . Well said, kid. Plenty, apparently.”

 

“You’re not in any discomfort?” Dr. Stone prompted him.

 

“No, none,” Peter assured her.

 

“No shit,” Bucky mumbled. “I think you probably overdid it, doc.”

 

“This is to be expected,” Dr. Stone assured Bucky over Peter’s lap. “It’s all perfectly normal. Well,” she looked down at his arm. “Not all, I suppose. But his reaction to the painkillers is normal.” As she crossed the room to wash her hands, Peter frowned. 

 

“I’m fine,” he promised. “It was just… bad wording.”

 

“Sure, kid,” Bucky deadpanned, clearly unimpressed. “Tell me that tomorrow.”

 

“I will,” Peter said stubbornly, but then the doctor was back, wearing fresh gloves, picking up a tool that looked suspiciously like scissors. Peter hastily averted his gaze. It wasn’t that he had a weak stomach, by any means, but with the still-present spin in his head, he decided that it would be wise not to watch.

 

He looked at Bucky instead. “Thanks for staying with me,” he said earnestly.

 

“What did I say about thanking me?” Bucky asked crossly, and Peter smiled.

 

“You’d leave me here by myself,” Peter recited dutifully, but the grin didn’t fade. “I really do appreciate it, though. How long has it been?”

 

Bucky shrugged. “You were in surgery for about three hours, then they tossed you in here to sleep it off. I guess it’s been probably about fourteen hours, all told.” Peter closed his eyes and his brow furrowed. He tried to ignore the slight tugging sensation where the doctor was working.

 

“What time is it?” 

 

“About eleven-thirty in the morning.”

 

Peter swallowed. Gwen would be in school right now. It was getting near the tail end of lunch; he doubted he would have time to call her before she was back in class. He wished that he could text her. He needed to find a way to get his hands on a phone again. Maybe he could sell some pictures to Jameson? He wasn’t sure that even a man of dubious morals like him would do business with a fifteen-year-old runaway without at least informing the police.

 

“Something wrong, kid?”

 

“No, no,” Peter quickly shook his head, turning his attention back towards Bucky. “It’s just… I missed a whole night of patrolling,” he offered weakly, and Bucky snorted.

 

“I think a night off is called for, in this case,” he told Peter, and the teenager privately had to agree. As much as he hated it, he felt like he’d kind of filled his quota of violence for last night. 

 

“This arm’s all done,” Dr. Stone announced suddenly, and Peter looked, surprised. He could still see where the thread had been and, geeze, that was an ugly-looking cut, but he’d had worse. It would heal, he knew.

 

“Can I move my wrist, now?” Peter begged, fingers stretching a little despite himself.

 

“Absolutely not,” The doctor told him with a frown, strapping the brace back on. “Not until after the x ray. You could hurt yourself.” Peter groaned, dropping his head back against the headboard, but he held still obediently as the doctor rounded the bed and began work on the other arm.  There was silence for a while then. Bucky didn’t seem inclined to start conversation, and Peter was finding himself a little worn out. It was dumb, he thought almost petulantly. He’d been awake for less than an hour and he was already tired again? He made a mental note to never need surgery again, then laughed at himself for it.

 

He had just started nodding off when Dr. Stone straightened up. “All done,” she said, and Peter looked down to find that she had reapplied the splint.

 

“Oh,” Peter said, yawning. “Great. So when’s the x ray?” 

 

“We’ll do that in just a few minutes,” Dr. Stone told him as she cleared away her tools and went to the sink again. “I just need to make some notes about your condition, then we’ll get that all squared away. Just be patient for a little while longer.”

 

“How can I be anything but?” The doctor shot a curious look at him, so he elaborated. “Well, I don’t have much choice when I’m the one in the hospital gown.” Dr. Stone paused, then snorted, turning away.

 

“ _ The patient _ . I get it. Honestly, I’m surprised I haven’t heard that one more.” When Peter looked over at Bucky, grinning under his mask, he was pleased to find a look he decided he could get used to: exasperated amusement. “Alright, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Just hold on for me, alright?”

 

“Okay,” Peter agreed, watching her go out the door. He leaned his head back, then, letting out a long sigh. “Once we get all this stuff done, can I use your phone again? I should call… her. You know. Let her know everything went okay.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky leaned back, relaxing in his seat. “Don’t want your girlfriend to worry.”

 

“I’m starting to hate spies,” Peter said dryly, pulling a smirk to Bucky’s lips.

 

“You’re hanging around a lot of them, these days,” the man informed him. “You ought to get better at hiding your secrets.”

 

“I’m usually pretty good at keeping them,” Peter argued. “How’d you know?”

 

“You gave it away when you told her that you loved her. It’s something old enough that you’re saying  _ love _ but new enough that you’re still shy about it. You don’t tell a sister or mother that you love them like that, and with a wife, it would have been more confident. So, girlfriend.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Peter grimaced. “What else do you know?”

 

“Not much,” Bucky shrugged. “Your age—  _ ish—  _ and that you have a girlfriend.” He paused. “Although, thinking about it, you said that you wouldn’t be home tonight, so it’s someone you live with.” He thought about that for a moment and Peter almost had a minor freakout about it. “So you’re young, you live with your girlfriend. She probably knows you’re Spider-Man: you didn’t tell her  _ where _ you were going, but if you live with her, it would be pretty difficult to sneak around with that suit. You were fighting Doctor Octopus at, what, six at night? She would probably normally know where you were, that time of day. You millennials, always posting shit online.”

 

“Technically, I’m not a millennial,” Peter offered. “I think the millennials only go through nineteen ninety-seven? I was born in—” He stopped abruptly, mouth snapping shut. “ _ Shoot _ , I almost told you how old I was!”

 

“Good at keeping secrets, huh?” Bucky scoffed disbelievingly. “That was almost too easy, kid.” He shook his head. “Jesus. Born after ninety-seven. That would make you, what, twenty, at the oldest? Although chances are your birthday hasn’t passed yet, so probably nineteen. I really don’t think you’re that old yet. Eighteen, then, because you’re already moved out.” Peter let out an inward sigh, outwardly wrinkling his nose.

 

“I will neither confirm nor deny that assumption.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Alright,” Dr. Stone reentered the room, then, startling Peter as she brandished a handheld device he remembered seeing yesterday, a closed laptop tucked under the other arm. “Ready, Spider-Man?”

 

“Ready,” he answered immediately, paying more attention, this time. The thing had a little screen on it, and he was dying to see whatever was reading out on it, but it was faced away from him as the doctor positioned it to scan his hand. “Is that a Stark Tech handheld x ray or something?” He asked, trying to crane his neck far enough to catch a peek. Bucky, he noticed resentfully, was watching the screen.

 

“That’s right,” Dr. Stone agreed. “We used to have one from Biobase, actually, but the techheads around here decided that they could do it better… turns out, they were right. This one’s much more manageable than the old one.”

 

“It’s really cool,” Peter enthused, leaning to the other side as she crossed the room to check on his other wrist.

 

“It is,” She agreed, smiling, but her eyes didn’t leave the display. Peter’s shoulders drooped with disappointment as she lowered the device. “Okay. It’s looking really good, Spider-Man. Let’s pull these up and we’ll take a look together.” She glanced at Bucky. “Would you like… your friend to stay?”

 

“Yes,” Peter answered.

 

“You sure?” Bucky spoke up, then, leaning forward in his chair as if to stand. “I can go.”

 

“No,” Peter replied without hesitation. “I want you here. Please.” Bucky looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and leaned back. Peter felt a knot loosen in his chest.

 

“In that case,” Dr. Stone placed the laptop on the table and plugged something in from the handheld, setting it carefully aside. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” She navigated on her own for a few moments, then turned the computer to show Peter. He sucked in a breath as she pulled up his x rays from last night for comparison.

 

“As you can see here, last night you suffered multiple fractures to many of your carpals— the worst being the hamate and pisiform on your right hand and the scaphoid on your left.” He looked at the mess Doctor Octopus had made of his wrist, shuddering as he compared it to the mental image of what a wrist  _ ought _ to look like. “But this morning, the damage is almost completely healed. Most impressive, I think,” Dr. Stone mused aloud as she examined the picture, pointing out the different bones she was talking about. “We would normally expect to see bulging on these bones; fractures don’t tend to grow back the same as they were. It’s your body’s natural attempt to prevent a second break. But it doesn’t look like that’s happening, with you: your body is regrowing bone in, I assume, exactly the way it would have been had a break never happened.” She leaned back. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

 

“So I could break it again more easily?” Peter asked with a frown.

 

“No— that’s not necessarily what this means. It’s impossible to know without further study, of course, but I would think that healing like this would help you to regain all the elasticity and flexibility you’ve had up until now. Normally a break like this would have a very long recovery time and even in the best case scenario, it might never be the same. It looks like you might have somehow managed to avoid that.”

 

“Oh,” Peter blinked at the x ray, then shot a look at Bucky. The man’s face was flat and neutral, and Peter looked away quickly. “Well, good, right? That’s good. So can I move, now?”

 

The doctor hesitated, then smiled reluctantly. “Honestly, Spider-Man, I don’t see why not. You’re in the late stages of healing. If it continues at this rate, I should think you’ll be completely healed by tonight.”

 

“Awesome!” Peter lifted his arms, carefully flexing his wrists, very small movements allowed by the braces. It felt good. “Can I take these off?” He asked, gesturing with one hand to the other.  _ Very carefully. _

 

“Let me get that for you,” Dr. Stone reached forward to unstrap the splints, leaving his bare wrists free, and Peter grinned as he made a small circle with his left, then his right wrist. “How does that feel?”

 

“Fine,” Peter told her, his grin spreading wider in his relief. “Good. Normal, mostly. I guess a little stiff, but not bad or anything.” He looked at Dr. Stone. “When can I leave?” 

 

She laughed, patting his shoulder. “Not yet. I think you should stick around and sleep a little longer, but I think it’s safe to assume you’ll be ready to get moving by this evening.”

 

“Okay,” Peter agreed reluctantly. “I guess I am still pretty tired.”

 

“And the team will want to see you, before you go,” Bucky offered, and Peter flinched guiltily.

 

“Oh yeah,” He shot a glance over at Bucky again. “Are they worried?”

 

“Well, everyone spent hours looking for you, then got the news that you were badly injured coming in for medical, then by the time they got here, you were in surgery. So, yeah, probably.”

 

“Oops,” Peter grimaced. “I’ll definitely have to check in with everybody.”

 

“Mr. Stark has asked that he be informed when you’re ready for visitors,” Dr. Stone offered. “So whenever you feel ready, they’re all waiting to hear from you.”

 

“Okay,” Peter nodded sheepishly. “Thanks, Dr. Stone.”

 

“You’re welcome, Spider-Man.” She smiled at him, collecting her things. “If you need me, just ask JARVIS to let me know. I’ll be right down the hall.” Then with a whisk of her white doctor’s coat, she was out the door. There was an immediate ping from JARVIS.

 

“Good morning, Spider-Man,” the system said politely. “Mr. Stark would like to know if you feel up to receiving visitors.” Peter had to laugh.

 

“Did you tell him that Dr. Stone said I could?”

 

“I’ve been instructed to monitor your progress.”

 

“That’s a yes.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Awesome,” Peter snickered, grinning over at Bucky. “Well, go ahead and let him know, I guess. He can come down.” He thought of something, then. “She never mentioned my leg. Did they have to do anything for that?” 

 

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t think so. That one was mostly healed up by the time we got here.”

 

“Cool.” Peter dropped his head back against the pillow. He was tired, but excited to see the Avengers. He couldn’t believe they cared enough about his well-being to spend hours combing the streets of Queens. They waited quietly, then, until Peter heard the elevator door down the hall open, and he heard Mr. Stark talking.

 

“Reschedule the call. I’m busy. A pressing matter came up.” Peter’s face warmed a little, but he didn’t comment as Mr. Stark strolled through the door in that moment. “Spider-Man.” He examined him. “You’re looking… just as masked as when I left you. Damn. Nat’s going to be devastated.”

 

Peter laughed. “But significantly less injured,” he offered, flashing his bruised wrists up at the man. “So at least there’s something, right?”

 

“Something,” he agreed, rounding to the unoccupied side of the bed, hands casually propped in his pockets. “How you feeling, kid? Better?”

 

“Much better,” Peter agreed, hands dropping again. “The doctor says I’m all clear to leave this evening. Probably.”

 

“Seriously?” Mr. Stark frowned. “With two broken wrists?”

 

“Not broken anymore,” The teen announced proudly, wiggling his fingers demonstratively. 

 

“Must have been one hell of a surgery,” Mr. Stark’s eyebrows lifted. “JARVIS, remind me to give Georgia Stone a raise.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Oh, and tell the team that Spider-Man’s up, would you?”

 

“Right away.”

 

“Thanks for helping me, Mr. Stark,” Peter’s fingers smoothed over the blankets. “As far as, um, payment goes,” He trailed off, staring down at the blankets, trying to figure out how to tell the man he had about twenty-five dollars to his name.

 

“No payment necessary, Spidey,” Mr. Stark waved away his concern and Peter felt himself slump with relief. “That’s what I keep this medical facility for; use by the team, friends, family, and staff of the tower. I think, as a fellow hero, you probably fall into at least one of those categories.”

 

“It gets enough use to keep doctors on staff?” Peter wondered aloud, grimacing, and Mr. Stark snorted. 

 

“Unfortunately.” The elevator opened at the end of the hall, then, and the occupants were chattering loudly enough that even Mr. Stark and Bucky could hear them.

 

“Cap, you really ought to take the stairs, you’re too  _ bulky  _ for the elevator,” That was Clint, complaining loudly. “You nearly elbowed me in the face.”

 

“Don’t stand so close behind me and it wouldn’t be an issue,” Peter heard Cap reply primly, and he heard a chuckle that might have belonged to Dr. Banner.

 

“Maybe I’ll just slide down the air chutes next time,” Clint mused, and Mr. Stark spoke up to cut him off.

 

“Don’t you dare,” he called down the hall. “Stay out of my walls. Use the hallways like a normal person.” The three men entered the room, now, and Peter grinned as he caught sight of them.

 

“Hey, guys,” He chirped, and smiles broke out over all three faces.

 

“Spidey!”

 

“Spider-Man, good to see you awake,”

 

“How are you feeling, Spidey?”

 

“I’m good! Great. Totally awesome.” He lifted his wrists, flashing the still diminishing scars, now stitch-free. “Practically good as new.” There were exclamations of surprise and happiness, but Peter was distracted by the elevator door opening again, and then Natasha and Sam were entering. There were fresh bruises on Sam’s face, and they were both sweaty, like they’d been sparring. Peter waved at them. “Hey, guys!”

 

There was so much ruckus in the small hospital room: everyone shouting over each other, talking to Peter, about Peter, fussing over him, scolding him. Natasha even slapped the back of his head once, spouting out Russian that he suspected was  _ either  _ curses or endearments, but he wasn’t sure which one it was. He didn’t feel like it mattered, in the moment.

 

Peter felt warm and safe and happy and he didn’t even have to remind himself not to think about it.

 

\---

 

_ Avengers Capture Spider-Menace! _

 

That was a nice headline, Peter thought dryly, staring at the kiosk from across the street, perched on a short building. The Saturday traffic was already in full swing, so he didn’t go down to get a better look. He didn’t really want the attention right now. Especially since he had somewhere to be.

 

Still, he lingered for longer than he should. He ought to get moving, but every time he tried to stand, it felt like his knees froze and he just wobbled in place, shivers running through his body.

 

He watched the people going by.

 

Peter sucked in breath after breath, telling himself to move. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to  _ deal with this. _

 

But Gwen had told him that Anna May-Watson had been appointed the executor of Aunt May’s estate, and she had arranged the funeral for today. Six days since Aunt May died. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and reminded himself that Gwen was at the funeral. She knew he was coming. She was expecting him.

 

Peter stood up.

 

Every action felt monumental. Every toss of his arms a Herculean effort, every press of the trigger a near impossible task. But he swung through the city, ignoring the surprised cries as commuters, having assumed his arrest, saw him going by overhead.

 

By the time he made it to the graveyard, the officiant was beginning to speak. Peter’s eye scrolled over the assembled crowd: larger than he would have thought, but as he took in faces, he realized how many lives Aunt May had impacted. She had had a presence in the community, she did valuable work at the hospital, and she was always willing to lend a helping hand to anyone who needed it. Peter, he realized, wasn’t going to be the only one to miss her.

 

Gwen was crying.

 

But he spotted a few faces he didn’t recognize: ones that weren’t paying that much attention to the service. Police, he thought, or maybe social services. Waiting for him to show. The runaway nephew, famously close to his aunt, would never miss her sendoff. Peter let out a long breath, settling onto his haunches across the street. He could hear from here, he thought regretfully, shifting down to be flatter against the building. No one could see him like this, but he could still watch and listen.

 

His eyes found Aunt May’s casket, then, and his heart twisted up inside him like a dying thing. He let out a shuddering breath, feeling the tears prickling at his eyes as he focused on the wood. The words of what he was sure was a beautiful and touching eulogy were completely lost on him as he thought of all the experiences he’d never share with Aunt May, now.

 

She wouldn’t be around to see him graduate high school. She wouldn’t tour his college with him or see his dorm. She wouldn’t see him get engaged, and she would never get to go his wedding. Any children he had would never know their Great Aunt May.

 

He swallowed hard and told himself  _ not to think about it. _

 

He propped his chin on one arm, fingers tracing over the place where the line from his wrist surgery had been. It had completely disappeared, by now, but he wasn’t sure that he’d ever forget the sight of it. (Don’t think about it.)

 

Sometimes it felt like this gig asked too much of him, Peter thought, but then shook his head. He could quit, if he wanted to. It would be easy. Much easier than being penniless, homeless, and constantly fighting the worst the Big Apple could throw at him. He could just walk into any police station, turn himself in, and move to Nebraska. He could live with his second cousin and go to school and make new friends and leave his days of teenage crime fighting behind him. (Don’t think about it.)

 

But there was no way he would ever do that, no matter how much he lost. He wasn’t naive enough to think that things would just be  _ fine _ if Spider-Man retired. Spider-Man couldn’t  _ solve crime _ , but he was helping. He’d read the studies. Crime went down, noticeably down, when vigilantes were active. His own alter-ego had been covered in the essays.  _ Spider-Man was making a difference _ . (Don’t think about it.)

 

So he supposed that it didn’t matter whether he was struggling in his personal life. As long as he was helping people, he would keep trying to make things better. (Don’t think about it.)

 

It wasn’t what his Aunt and Uncle would have wanted for him, but it was what he had chosen for himself. (Don’t think about it.)

 

The service below was beginning to break up. He swallowed, lying on his back there on the roof and looking up at the sky. It was sunny and blue, and as long as Peter looked at the sky, he could focus on the fact that he meant as much to New York as it meant to him. That was a comforting thought. 

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Don’t think about it!

 

Peter got up and turned away from the service, blonde hair only briefly catching his eye. He would see Gwen later, but for now he needed to leave. He didn’t want anyone to spot him here, and, after all, he had work to do. He had a city to protect.

 

He launched off the roof, eyes trained on the sky as he shot web after web, carrying him through the city as he slowly headed back towards his familiar stomping grounds.

 

He passed his old apartment. There was a police car outside, he noticed, before forcing his eyes skyward again.

 

He turned an extra block west so that he wouldn’t see Midtown High.

 

Peter dodged the movie theater where he and Uncle Ben used to go to watch scary movies. Aunt May had never wanted to go.

 

He didn’t go to the fabric store where Aunt May used to take him was little and then, after he was bitten, where he would go by himself.

 

He averted his eyes from the coffee shop belonging to the gruff, rude man who had somehow taken a shine to Peter and May. But  _ only _ Peter and May.

 

The grocery store where most of the employees knew the Parker’s names and where all of them knew their faces went by under him. They’d gotten more than their fair share of freebies there, the last seven months.

 

He drifted a little too close to the park where he’d played with his aunt and uncle, and even farther back, in dimmer memories, with his parents.

 

The curb where the three of them would eat ice cream after his report cards came home. They always celebrated his good grades with double scoops.

 

Peter landed on a roof and drooped to his knees, gasping for breath behind his mask. He doubled over, feeling sick, and groaned as he pressed his forehead to the gravel scattered over the flat surface.

 

“Aunt May,” he whispered. “Aunt May, I’m so sorry. I should have been paying more attention. I could have saved you. Uncle Ben—  _ god _ , it’s my fault. If I’d never lived with you, you’d both still be…”

 

He stayed where he was, listening to the sounds of his neighborhood. Even after just a week, it already felt alien _. _ It felt  _ wrong _ , being here now that the last of his family was gone. He didn’t belong here, without them.

 

Peter rolled over and ripped his mask off, returning to the prone position he had taken at the end of Aunt May’s service. The sky, he reminded himself. Big and blue and so empty. There was so much  _ room _ in the sky. There was so much room that he could cry and cry, staring up into that blue, and it could swallow up his sorrow where no one would ever see.

 

By the time he left, the sun was already below the skyline.

 

He was in the air, in that moment between swings, when his spider sense went off like an airhorn in the back of his head and Peter curled his body backwards, ducking just in time to avoid a bullet that would have gone straight through his head. He heard, distantly, a cry of “ _ Holy shit!” _

 

He dove, then, letting himself lose most of his altitude before catching himself and swinging low and fast towards the source of the voice. He slingshotted himself upwards, trying to catch sight of anyone suspicious, and had to abruptly yank himself back low again, nearly smashing into the ground as another bullet skimmed by him.

 

He’d seen that red suit on top of the building even in the dusky light of late evening.

 

Peter landed on the glass and started scurrying upwards, preparing himself for another dodge, but it seemed that the shooter wasn’t just aiming down into the street below to take him out. He hesitated at the lip of the roof, before popping his head up.

 

The muzzle of a sniper rifle met his gaze and he just barely managed to avoid another shot.

 

“Hey, Spidey!” A cheerful voice greeted him, and Peter groaned. 

 

“Deadpool! Stop shooting!”

 

“Aw, honey-bear, I really wish I could,” the mercenary’s voice was regretful. “But somebody’s offering me  _ so much money _ to just… shoot you right in the head.”

 

“What?” Peter exclaimed, face pointed up towards where the assassin was hidden. “You’re trying to  _ kill me? _ For  _ money _ ?”

 

“I hate the word kill,” Deadpool simpered. “But basically, yes, that is how mercenary work goes down, Sweet Pea. You’re getting the picture, now. Hey, you ought to be  _ proud _ ! Making  _ you  _ not alive is going to make  _ me _ very rich. Like, very, very rich.”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Peter demanded. “Don’t you think that’s messed up? Because it’s  _ really  _ messed up.” He began stealthily sneaking to the side, so that Deadpool wouldn’t know where he was coming up.

 

“That’s the way the world works, Angel Muffin,” Seriously, what was with all those weird nicknames? Peter wanted to tell him to stop, but that would give him away. “Seriously, though, Spidey, I’m just such a huge fan. It wasn’t easy to agree to take the contract. I made them add another zero to the end before I would even  _ think _ about it. So no hard feelings, right? Know that even once I’m swimming in a pool of money like Scrooge McDuck, I’ll really be thinking of you. I’ll thank you at the end of my prayers every night. I’ll have a portrait of you in every single room of my mansion.” Peter took a breath and threw himself upwards, over the lip of the building, spraying web indiscriminately towards the man.

 

He missed.  _ Shoot. _ Deadpool was on the move.

 

The man had ducked and rolled away from the spray, and when he came up, he got off another shot, which Peter managed to duck under. A sniper rifle was kind of unwieldy, in a close quarters battle, Peter noticed. He shot more web at Deadpool’s feet, hoping to pin him down, but the merc skipped back out of the way again.

 

Okay.

 

Peter leapt forward, throwing himself to the side to avoid another bullet, but recovered  in time to lunge at Deadpool, getting inside the range of the rifle. He didn’t have time to dodge when Deadpool nailed him in the ribs with the gun, brandishing it like a baseball bat and sending Peter tumbling to the ground.

 

“I don’t think so, Lady Tiger,”  _ What? _ “I think you’ll have to try a little harder than that.” The muzzle of the gun swung around towards him again and Peter rolled out of the way, scrambling to his feet and jerking forward to thrust the gun upwards, so the next shot went off in the air. “Gotta hand it to you, you’re  _ good _ , Spidey. Really good. Very agile. I’m totally into it. I’d give you my number, under normal circumstances.”

 

“I don’t want your number!”

 

“Neither does anybody else,” Deadpool lamented, swinging the butt around to whip him in the face, but Peter caught it in time and wrenched the whole thing out of his hands, tossing it away and webbing it up. “But hey, maybe if you end up winning, here, we could give it a shot anyway. Hey, get it? Shot! Because I’m shooting at you.” He pulled out a handgun and got off another two shots in quick succession, forcing Peter to leap into the air to avoid them.

 

“I have a girlfriend,” Peter deflected despite himself as he landed in a crouch, and he saw Deadpool visibly sigh. 

 

“There are no single guys left in Manhattan, I swear,” he shook his head morosely, and Peter almost cracked a smile by accident as he sprayed web over the head of the gun and yanked it away, too.

 

“No good ones, anyway,” Peter countered.

 

“Exactly. So what  _ is _ the plan here? I know your whole schtick is not hurting people, or whatever, but I have a lot of guns,” He pulled out another revolver, brandishing it in the air. “Are you just planning on dodging until I run out?”

 

“I don’t usually plan that far in advance,” Peter quipped back. “Usually I see an opportunity eventually,” Deadpool danced back again as Peter aimed more web for his feet. Most people weren’t so adept at dodging, he huffed silently. “And then I take advantage of it.” The teen tried to snag the third gun away from Deadpool, but the merc was quick to yank it out of the way of the string of web.

 

“That’s a pretty bad strategy to have against a crazy guy with a gun. Let alone a crazy guy with a  _ bunch _ of guns.”

 

“You’ll run out of guns eventually,” Peter retorted.

 

“Yeah but the thing is—”  _ Bang bang! _ “I only have to hit you once.”

 

“I’m pretty tough.” Peter came up out of his duck, lurching at Deadpool and tackling him around the middle. They both tumbled to the ground and Peter felt his spidey sense going off in time to push the gun away from his head. It was hard to beat a guy with super strength in a grappling match, Peter though with pleasure as he managed to web Deadpool’s right hand, gun still gripped in it, to the ground.

 

The warning from his senses didn’t go away, though, as Peter heard the sound of scraping metal and looked up to find Deadpool literally drawing a sword off his back.  _ Seriously? _

 

It swung down and Peter caught Deadpool’s hand, forcing it away and webbing it down, as well.

 

“While normally I could really appreciate a situation like this,” Deadpool said, sounding a little breathless. “All I can think about is that sweet, sweet murder cash.”

 

“Shut up,” Peter frowned down at him, staggering up and off now that both of his hands were restrained. “You’re not getting paid.”

 

“I have all the time in the world, Babe,” Deadpool was testing the web on his hands, but Peter trusted it to—  _ holy crap Deadpool just somersaulted backwards onto his feet and Peter was absolutely sure he’d just broken his hands. _

 

“Oh my god!” Peter stumbled back a step. “Oh, oh no, your hands—” he knew  _ exactly  _ how bad that felt.

 

“Aw, are you worried about me?” Deadpool crooned, lifting his limp hands off the concrete. They were still coated in web: he’d taken the whole swatch with him, with that maneuver. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. My hands will be back to normal in no time, and then I’ll come and visit you again. Next time I’ll have a better strategy, I promise.” 

 

Then, all at once, every light in New York City shut off.

 

There was a moment where everything was  _ so quiet—  _ the electric hum that permeated every square foot of the city had silenced. All he could hear was breathing from the two men standing in the near-pitch darkness that had fallen since the first shot was fired.

 

Then the sound returned as brakes screeched, people began to shout, and, a few moments later, Peter heard a window break.

 

“Well,” Deadpool drawled, dragging the sound out. “How fortuitous is that? Sounds like  _ you’ve _ got your hands full, sugar cookie. So I’ll just be on my way.” He took a step back. “I’ll see you again real soon, though. Promise.”

 

“Hey, wait a second—” Peter exclaimed, stepping forward, too, but Deadpool had turned to run. Peter took another few steps after him, then flinched at the sound of screaming from a few blocks behind.

 

He watched as Deadpool vaulted over the edge of the roof, then turned and ran the other way. As he punched a would-be purse snatcher in the face, the lights flicked back on like nothing had ever happened and Peter had to wonder… what was  _ that _ all about? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it seems like Peter can suddenly heal a lot faster than he could before... It's because he can. I'm sorry. Here's what happened:
> 
> I didn't know much about Spider-man's abilities before I started writing this, so I've been researching EVERYTHING. Chapters ago I looked up his healing factor and got the information that it's "enhanced, but not by that much" so I just dropped it and was like, mmkay.
> 
> For this chapter I was researching broken bones and looking at comic panels to see if he's ever broken a bone before. And I saw that he slept off a gunshot wound and then it was gone like it never happened.
> 
> It was then that I realized my mistake, but it's too late to fix how long it took him to heal from the first doc ock fight but I'm not going to downplay his ability just because of that.
> 
> So yeah, I'm sorry. I hope y'all will just let it slide and forgive me.


	7. Pink Fuzzy Sweaters and Yellow Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like Gwen cause  
> Gwen.
> 
> Miiight see some edits tomorrow (but I couldn't wait anymore!!!).

**February**

  
  


Tony spoke suddenly, surprising everyone. “I think we need to talk about Spider-Man.” 

 

There was a beat of silence as each of the Avengers turned to look at the man, who had been weirdly quiet for the entire first of the month meeting.

 

“What about?” Natasha eventually asked, examining him. His mouth was set firmly even as he tapped at his phone, pretending that he wasn’t concerned.

 

“Oh, maybe the fact that he’s been acting weird for an entire month,” Stark shot her what might have been a fairly convincing disinterested frown, if it weren’t for the way his brows drew in. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

 

“He hasn’t been around the tower much,” Bruce agreed thoughtfully. “Spider-Man used to be here every couple of days, but we probably only saw him two or three times last month.”

 

“And he hasn’t stuck around for long,” Sam added. “I don’t think I’ve walked in on him demolishing Barton at Smash in forever.” 

 

Clint rolled his eyes, a smirk lingering on his lips. “You’re just upset because you still can’t beat me,” He retorted, arms crossing. He had picked up a flexing habit somewhere, Natasha noticed, and she was half tempted to beat it out of him. “If you want another reminder of that, we can go right now.”

 

“I’m sorry, are we joking right now?” Tony interrupted, finally lowered his phone. “Is this playtime? I’m sorry, I thought we were being adults.” His eyes flashed to meet hers. “Nat, back me up here. There’s no way you haven’t noticed. Go on, tell them.”

 

“I’ve noticed,” She agreed, leaning forward to brace her elbows against the table. “He’s almost like a completely different person.” There was a sudden sobering of the air and she shook her head. “No— not like that. It’s still  _ him. _ He’s just different, now.”

 

“How do you mean?” Steve prompted her, looking serious.

 

“Starting at the beginning of the year,” Natasha mused, “Things changed. His activity has shifted somewhat north: it’s not as if he’s completely abandoned the south part of the city, but he’s certainly got a larger presence in the north of Queens, now. His hours of operation have changed almost completely: it used to be he would be active in the late afternoon to early morning: now the only times he’s  _ not  _ regularly seen are afternoons and evenings twice a week, with a lowered presence until after dark on the weekends.” She glanced around the table. “His fighting style is… less careful. Even after his close call at the beginning of last month, he gets much closer, pulling riskier stunts. He’s more physical, now, I suppose. It used to be he would almost never lay a hand on someone unless it seemed like he had to, but now he seems like he  _ wants _ to fight.”

 

She paused before continuing. “I got a report,” she leaned back. “He’s targeting drunk drivers. Noticeably.”

 

“He’s attacking drunks?” Cap asked, frowning, and Natasha cracked a wry smile.

 

“No. He’s  _ pulling them over _ .” She shook her head slightly. “He’s calling taxis. Taking keys. I heard of one case, in particular, where he and the driver went for a walk. Nobody got close enough to hear what they were saying, but from what I understand, whatever Spidey said to him made the driver cry.”

 

“He’s… he made someone cry?” Bruce sounded positively befuddled.

 

“Right. He’s never done anything like this before, and frankly that has me more concerned than anything else. I think something may have happened in his personal life involving an accident, possibly around the end of last year or the start of this one.” She thought about it. “After Christmas, but before his fight with Otto Octavius, I think. Maybe around New Year.”

 

“Shit,” Clint ran a hand over his face. He looked like he realized, now, that he had been being kind of an ass, joking around. Sam looked somewhat ashamed, as well. There was silence as everyone wondered to themselves, but Natasha’s eyes caught on one member of the group who hadn’t spoken yet. His face was neutrally contemplative and she didn’t trust that.

 

“Barnes?” She prompted. “You got something to say?” The attention shifted to the ex-assassin, who shot her a hard-eyed look. She  _ knew  _ it.

 

“Bucky?” Steve looked at his friend with confusion and concern, and Natasha practically saw the wheels turning in Barnes’ head before he relented.

 

“Spider-Man gave a couple of things away, that day he had surgery,” he admitted, shrugging his metal shoulder. “He was pretty high. Said more than he wanted to, probably.”

 

“I seriously need to get voice recorders set up in there,” Stark hissed.

 

“Don’t be a creep,” Sam rebuked him, gesturing back to Barnes. “So what did he say?”

 

Barnes fell quiet again, metal fingers tapping against the wooden table with a dull thumping sound.. Deciding whether or not to spill, Nat realized.

 

“I think I know how old he is and his current living situation,” He eventually said, words coming slowly. “He may have recently moved to a new area, which would explain the change in radius and what I learned about who he lives with explains the change in hours. Nothing to worry about, there.”  _ Damn. _ What Natasha wouldn’t give to have been a part of that conversation. “But I don’t know anything about what might have happened at the New Year.”

 

“In the car,” Tony spoke up again. “When I picked him up that day, he had… kind of a breakdown on the way back to the tower.” He and Barnes exchanged a look. “He was talking kind of crazy about how being a hero takes things from you,” He glanced down at his hands, phone slipping down to rest on the table. “I thought he was talking about his wrists,” he admitted, frowning. “But maybe it was something else. It seemed like… more than just that.” Barnes nodded his agreement, but Natasha’s attention was on Tony. He was growing quickly more somber, like something had just occurred to him. His next words confirmed her suspicions. “There’s one other thing…” He leaned back, looking kind of antsy. “You remember that Peter Parker kid?”

 

“The photographer?” Sam asked, frowning a little. “The one who takes pictures of Spider-Man, right?”

 

“He was a lead when we were trying to track Spidey down,” Clint agreed. “What about him?”

 

“He mentioned an internship application to me, in December. Finally got around to taking a look at it and the kid’s brilliant, seriously. You should’ve seen this application: he looks perfect for the job. So I decided to give him a call, offer him a position,” Tony’s fingers plucked anxiously at his beard. “But his phone goes straight to voicemail and he never calls me back. I’m thinking, weird, right? So I get in contact with his principal at school, see if I can hit him up that way. You know what the man tells me? Parker’s been missing since New Year’s Eve.” A hush fell over the room. “I didn’t get all the details, because he’s a minor and all, but from what I understand, he was in a car accident a while before midnight, then he was reported missing a few hours later. No one’s seen him since.”

 

Clint cursed again. “He just went missing after getting in a car crash? Yeah, that might explain it. Were they close? Him and Spidey, I mean?”

 

Tony shrugged. “Not sure. Peter denied it when I talked to him, but that’s not really much of a guarantee. With Spidey having his secret identity and all, he might’ve asked Peter not to let on that they know each other that well. I find it pretty hard to believe that they’re as distant as they want us to believe, though. Not with all those pictures Parker’s taken. Some of them are  _ close _ . I saw the kid: one look at his clothes was enough to tell he doesn’t have a good enough camera to get those shots from far off. Spidey knew he was there and he was letting it happen. Maybe even helping him out. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say that they at least built some kind of working relationship.”

 

“He’s soft-hearted,” Bruce interjected. “Spider-Man, I mean. He would probably take it pretty hard if he found out the photographer kid that follows him around ended up missing or dead after a drunk driving accident.”

 

“Probably so,” Steve agreed, shifting in his seat. She knew that look. That was his action face. He wanted to  _ do something. _ She doubted that any of them had any ideas as to what, though.

 

“Should we say something to him about it?” Sam was frowning. He probably knew Spider-Man less than the rest of them, she noted, but even he looked concerned. “Maybe we should call him in.”

 

“No.” That was Barnes, attracting the attention of the team again. He scowled, looking somewhat self conscious. “Look, the kid isn’t going to want a bunch of assholes like us trying to give him a  _ pep talk _ right now. Just let him do his own thing for a while. We can keep an eye on him from here, be there to help if he needs it, but he doesn’t want to depend on us and that’s his call.”

 

“You’re right,” Bruce agreed. “How old is he? He probably thinks we’re all a bunch of geezers anyway. Twenty? Twenty-one?” Natasha’s eyes fell on Barnes, daring him to withhold the information. He shrugged his metal shoulder at her again, looking uninterested.

 

“Couldn’t say for sure.” A quiet exhale ran around the table, not quite a sigh, as the team realized that the normally taciturn soldier was finished handing out his insights.

 

“Alright,” Steve was clearly trying to reign in the discussion, now. “We’ll keep an eye on him. Check in every two weeks, make sure he’s doing alright. In the meantime,” He gave Natasha an imploring look. “Would you find out what you can about what happened to Peter Parker? Maybe we can find some news for him.” 

 

Nat nodded. “Sure thing, Cap. I’ll get right on it.”

 

“Thank you,” The two exchanged a nod. “Dismissed.” Natasha stood, ignoring the chatter of the other Avengers, and got to work.

 

\---

 

“Flash has been asking about you.”

 

Peter looked up to find Gwen standing in the doorway. Her backpack dangled from her fingers, and her face was still flushed from the chill of the frigid outdoor temperatures. It was several days into February and only four degrees out today, driving Peter inside whether he liked it or not. It was mostly fine, he had decided. Most people weren’t out committing violent crimes in this kind of cold anyway.

 

“Flash Thompson?” Peter repeated disbelievingly, a strange smile clinging to his lips as he watched her drop her bag by the door before swinging it shut. She was the first one home, but they both knew it was better safe than sorry. “What’s he want?”

 

“He’s worried,” Gwen told him, crossing the room to sit at the desk, letting him continue to hog the blankets on her bed. “He told me today that he saw you hurt, a few months ago. He said you were covered in bruises.” Peter remembered vividly the day Flash had walked in on him in the bathroom, the day after his fight with Doctor Octopus. He flushed with humiliation just thinking about it. “He said that he wished he had told someone,” She leaned her cheek against her hand. “He said that maybe if he had, you wouldn’t be missing, now.” 

 

Peter blinked, surprised. “Oh, man. Oh, no. He’s blaming himself for me being missing?”

 

“He didn’t cry or anything,” Gwen admitted. “But it kind of looked like he was going to. He’s really upset, Peter.” She paused. “A lot of people are worried about you.”

 

Peter ran a hand over his face and sat up, crossing his legs. “I know. I know they are. And I wish I could do something to reassure them, but I don’t want… I can’t get caught, or they’ll take me away. I just— you know I can’t let them do that.” He groaned. “I feel really bad about Flash, though. This isn’t on him. I don’t like him, but he doesn’t deserve to think that this is his fault.”

 

“Maybe we can come up with some logical excuse as to why you had those that had nothing to do with… Spider-Man, or you getting beat up by someone, or something.”

 

“I probably told him that I fell down or something,” Peter said, nose wrinkling. “I don’t remember for sure. But I’m sure he knew I was lying.”

 

“Maybe you got caught in an attack with a supervillain,” Gwen offered. “While you were taking pictures of Spider-Man?”

 

“Maybe,” Peter agreed doubtfully, but it was more to please her than out of actual agreement, and it was clear from the grown on her face that she knew that.

 

“Come on, Pete, work with me,” She complained, and Peter grinned sheepishly, shrugging, and opened his arms to her.

 

“Sorry,” he said as she relented and crossed to sit on the bed, leaning against him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders as she laid her head against his.

 

“Pete,” Gwen took his free hand in both of hers, squeezing. “What’s the plan, here?” Peter felt a spike of cold through his chest and he shifted a little, noticing his heart pounding.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You’re fifteen,” Her voice came out soft, non-accusatory. She didn’t want him to panic, he knew, but she didn’t know how  _ easy _ it was, these days. ”I don’t want you to think you’re not welcome here, you know I love having you around, and I’d  _ much _ rather you be safe here with me than just out on the streets…” Peter could hear her swallow and take a breath before she continued. “But you’re only fifteen. You can’t do this for the rest of your life. What about high school? And college? And a job, someday?”

 

“Well,” Peter leaned his head against hers, trying to calm himself down. “I’ve actually been thinking about that a lot. I’m only three years away from being legally old enough to live on my own, and, heck, my birthday’s in April, so it’s practically two years,” He rubbed his thumb against her hand, trying to comfort  _ her _ , too. “Then, after that, I can just… get my GED and get a job and start saving up for college. It’ll… it’ll put my plans off for a couple years, but that’s totally normal, you know? Not everybody goes to college right out of high school. It’ll be fine.”

 

If he was being honest with himself, the idea broke his heart. He’d had plans, he’d been working so hard on his future, and now he would have nothing to show for it. He would show up into the world after more than two years as a missing child and have to figure out how to support himself immediately. There would be all kinds of hoops to jump through, but he was sure it would work out in the end. At least, that’s what he had to keep telling himself.

 

“If you ever want me to leave,” Peter added, seriously. “Tell me. I don’t want to… you know, overstay my welcome or anything. Hey, maybe I could move in with the Avengers. They probably have enough room,” Gwen’s head tipped back in time to catch his grin, but she leaned up to press a firm kiss to his cheek.

 

“Don’t you dare,” she warned. “You’re staying here. And once we’re both eighteen, we’ll find an apartment together and you won’t have to hide. Okay?”

 

“I love you.”

 

That made Gwen smile, too, as her worry seemed to ease. “I love you, too Peter. Even if you are an idiot. Which, by the way, you are.”

 

“Why am I an idiot, now?” Peter asked, frowning at her, despite his easing humor. 

 

“Because,” She answered, poking him in the chest with one finger. “You let yourself think for even a  _ second _ that I want you anywhere but here.” Peter had to snicker at that.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, crossing over his heart with one finger. “It won’t happen again.” 

 

“It had better not, Mr. Parker,” she answered primly, but then they both jumped as her phone rang. “Hang on,” she told Peter, scrambling off the bed in order to fetch the device from her backpack. She made a face at the caller ID, then, seemingly reluctantly, answered.

 

“Hi, Sally, what’s up?” She leaned against the door, eyes finding Peter again as she listened to the person on the other end of the call. Sally Avril, he realized: one of their classmates. He hadn’t realized that she and Gwen were close. “Yeah, I’m doing okay. Yeah. I actually… don’t really feel like going out or anything.” Peter felt a pang of guilt and wondered if she  _ would _ have gone, if he hadn’t been here. “I mean, I have my internship most nights, so I just… have homework, you know? Yeah. I just want to focus on that and relax. Right. Thanks for understanding, Sally. And thanks for checking in. I’ll see you at school. Bye.”

 

As she hung up the phone, Peter swung his legs out from under the blankets, perching closer to the edge of the bed. He wondered if he should go. “Sally invited you out?”

 

“Yeah,” Gwen’s nose wrinkled. “She just wanted to make sure I was okay. It’s… been happening a lot, lately.” There must have been confusion on Peter’s face, because she continued. “People making sure I’m doing alright… since you went missing.”

 

“Oh,” Peter felt weirdly numb upon hearing that. “That’s really nice.”

 

“Yeah,” Gwen nodded, coming back to sit next to him again. “Everyone’s been super sweet to me,” she said, but she sounded uncomfortable. Her next words confirmed the thought. “But… I’d rather have you there. You know? I’d rather no one talk to me at all if it meant that you were there with me.” She slid her hand into Peter’s and he nodded, feeling guilty. 

 

“I really am sorry, Gwen. Really. If I could think of another way… but I’m  _ not _ leaving New York, and this is the best I’ve been able to come up with. No foster home would ever let me get away with sneaking out and being Spider-Man. This is the only way I can be with you at all.”

 

“I know that,” Gwen agreed, frowning down at their joined hands. “I’m not trying to say that I wish you’d find another way. I do wish things were different, but I guess I just… I miss Aunt May,” she admitted. “And I miss us being normal. But this is definitely better than not being  _ us  _ at all.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, voice soft. He couldn’t deny the guilt he felt creeping under his skin, so he stood up, carefully extracting himself from Gwen’s grip. A distraction, he decided, was in order. “Hey, by the way,” he crossed the room to fish his backpack out of the closet. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

 

“Anything,” came Gwen’s answer, and he shot her a fond glance over his shoulder. He knew she would say that, and he loved her for it.

 

“Well,” He pulled his camera out of the bag— the one Gwen had bought him for Christmas— and turned back to her. “So I was thinking that it might help us both out if I had a source of income, but there’s no way that even such a morally dubious guy as Jameson would buy photographs from a runaway teenager.” He tapped his finger nervously against the body of the camera. “So I was wondering if you would do it for me.”

 

“You want me to be the middleman between yourself and the Daily Bugle?” Gwen asked, visibly amused. Distraction successful, he thought triumphantly.

 

“Right,” Peter chirped back, putting on his cheerful face for her. “I’ll still be taking them, so they’ll still be the same quality as before, so Jameson shouldn’t turn you down. We’ll just say that you took them.”

 

“We would probably want to have them leave the credits anonymous,” Gwen advised, and Peter nodded as she continued. “I don’t want my dad to notice and wonder when I got so good at photography.” She grimaced playfully as Peter snapped a photo of her. 

 

“Aw, you’re a natural,” Peter scoffed, taking another as she stuck her tongue out at him. “That’s all. So, do you think you can do it for me?” Gwen paused just for a moment, but only so Peter could take another picture as she pursed her lips at him.

 

“Definitely,” came her firm reply. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Anything you need, Pete, I mean it. I’m always happy to help.”

 

“You’re seriously the best and I don’t know how to thank you,” Peter let his breath go, looking up from his camera to watch her in real life instead. “Really.”

 

“You’ll be able to get a new phone!” Gwen exclaimed, perking up. “And I can text you again.”

 

“As if I want to be bothered by you all day,” Peter teased, and Gwen laughed, jumping to her feet.

 

“Oh,  _ I  _ bother  _ you _ ?” She demanded, giving him a little push on the chest. “If I recall correctly,  _ Peter _ , you’re the one who would always text me all day during school. I eventually couldn’t even keep it on vibrate because it got to be too noisy. You’re the worst multiple texter I’ve ever known.”

 

“Only because you don’t count your own text,” Peter quipped. “You match me message for message, you twerp.”

 

“Twerp!” Gwen exclaimed. “ _ You’re _ the twerp, Peter Parker! A fifteen-year-old brat who thinks he’s  _ so cool _ just because he’s  _ Spider-Man. _ ”

 

“At least I’m not the sixteen-year-old girl with a  _ crush _ on Spider-Man,” he caught a picture of her delighted faux-outrage, then set the camera aside so it wouldn’t get caught in the middle of this. Never fight in front of the children, he thought as he set it on the desk. “Honestly, how embarrassing is that?”

 

“Spider-Man can go suck an egg!” Gwen was laughing now, the light returned to her eyes. Peter felt the knot in his chest loosening. As long as she was looking at him like that, he didn’t have to worry about how he was making her life harder. As long as he could  _ tell  _ that she was happy, he could pretend not to know the truth.

 

“Maybe Spider-Man  _ will _ go,” Peter took a few meandering steps around the desk towards the window, but Gwen darted forward to bodily block the way, arms braced on either side of the frame to keep him inside.

 

“Absolutely not!” She lifted her chin. “It’s a Tuesday afternoon, which is a no-crime-fighting block. Spider-Man can do whatever he wants, but  _ Peter _ is staying here with me for movie night.”

 

“Movie night,” Peter agreed fondly. “Hey, if we manage to get those pictures sold to Jameson, maybe I’ll be able to buy the snacks, next time.” Gwen snorted and shook her head.

 

“You wish,” she crossed her arms once she saw that he wasn’t going for the fire escape anymore. “Snacks are  _ my _ jurisdiction. You have  _ terrible  _ taste.”

 

“Hey,” Peter put a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “I don’t have terrible taste. What are you talking about?”

 

“Last time you suggested  _ kale chips. _ ”

 

“You’re the one who introduced me to kale chips!”

 

“Yeah,” Gwen answered, shrill as she tossed her hands out in exasperation. “But not for  _ movie night _ ! More for like- sarcastically snacking on when you want to feel superior to the common man.” 

 

“This hypocrisy cannot stand,” Peter announced, arms crossing to mimic Gwen. “Next week I’m bringing kale chips, and I’m going to crunch them in your ear the whole movie so you can’t hear, and you’re just going to have to live with that.”

 

“You’re a terrible boyfriend,” Gwen informed him, lifting her chin stubbornly and closing her eyes. “I’m going to just pretend you’re not here.”

 

“Gwen.”

 

“Oh, is someone saying something? I don’t hear anything.”

 

“You’re cute.”

 

“Ah, the sweet sound of silence.”

 

Peter snickered, watching her. “I’ll make a web hammock for us to sit in tonight,” he promised, and she cracked one eye open.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Definitely.” Her lips pursed as she considered.

 

“Deal.” She thrust her hand out and he shook it soberly, trying not to ruin it by cracking a smile. It seemed like all the trouble was completely gone from Gwen’s mind: at least for the moment. 

 

“So what are we watching?”

 

“I was thinking  _ Wonder Woman. _ ”

 

“I knew I loved you for a reason.”

 

After that, it was easy. Peter took a nap while Gwen did her homework, then she woke him up when it was time for her to go to dinner so that he wouldn’t be taken by surprise if anyone went to her room. He spent a while on his computer— modified, obviously, he and Gwen had worked for  _ hours _ to make sure they could run it without it being tracked, somehow— and then they watched a superhero movie together on Gwen’s laptop.

 

As she was falling asleep, head on his shoulder, he carefully slipped out from under and helped her to lay back against the pillows. She stirred, but her eyes didn’t open even as she mumbled to him.

 

“Do you have to go?”

 

“Yeah, Gwen,” He pushed the hair off her face, speaking quietly so he wouldn’t wake her up any more. “I’ve got to go. People need me.” He heard her heave a slow sigh.

 

“Okay,” Gwen’s fingers brushed fumblingly against his and he caught on, squeezing for a second. “I’m gonna figure out how to help, I promise.”

 

“What?” He asked, amused, and wondered if she was talking in her sleep, but she must have slipped deeper, because she didn’t answer. Was she dreaming about being a superhero? That would be pretty cool. Then again, he thought, going to quietly change into his suit in the bathroom, it really wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

 

Pain, sometimes, excitement, sure, occasional gratification. Mostly routine.

 

Peter went out the window, quickly shutting it behind himself to keep the cold air out.  _ God _ , it was cold. He needed to get a Spider Coat or something. He didn’t know why he should be the only superhero in New York who had to freeze.

 

Daredevil, he reminded himself, probably didn’t wear a coat. But heck, half the people in town didn’t even believe that guy existed, so maybe he didn’t count.

 

Peter began his patrol, as he did every night after Gwen had fallen asleep. Ever since the beginning of January, he’d been doing this every night. Routine, he thought again. 

 

He stopped whatever crime he could find, but there really wasn’t much going on, with the temperatures as low as they were. No one in their right minds wanted to be out. Peter had to laugh as he wondered what that said about  _ him _ .

 

Well, okay, to be fair, no one in their right mind resorted to masked vigilantism by the age of fifteen, either. It was completely reasonable to say that Peter was not at  _ all _ in his right mind. Oh, well. Whatever got results, right?

 

He perched on a rooftop, crouching rather than sitting to avoid the chill directly against his butt as he propped his chin against his fist. What should he do? He could go back to Gwen’s, he supposed, but it would be better to stay out here just in case something came up. Then he could swing back that way around sunrise, as he did every morning, and hang out for a while before she left for school. That would give him enough time to thaw out a little before hitting the streets again.

 

Ever since Aunt— ever since he’s picked up this routine, he’d discovered that there was a lot more daytime crime than he had ever accounted for. He couldn’t believe all the hours he’d wasted in school, not helping out. But the past was the past, and he was doing everything he could, now.

 

Maybe he would swing by Avenger’s Tower, later, he thought, cheering up a little. Not for long, there was way too much to do, but it would be nice to see everyone again. After that… well, after that, if he was honest, he’d probably be drooping from exhaustion. He could build himself a hammock and take a nap for a couple of hours: either he would wake up on his own or the web would break, and either way, he would know it was time to get back to work. Much handier than an alarm, for sure.

 

It was Wednesday, so Gwen would be at her internship tonight. Peter would have until about nine thirty to do whatever he wanted (read: find crime to fight), before going to change back into Peter clothes so he could walk her home without anyone paying them any attention. Then back up the fire escape through the window so that they could spend some more time together before Gwen had to go to bed. Then Peter would hit the streets again, and, if he felt any bit as exhausted as he did right now, maybe take another nap.

 

A nap actually sounded pretty good right about now.

 

Peter hopped up and turned, considering his current rooftop. A good view of the city around him, so he’d probably be woken up by any ruckus that needed his attention. He jogged over, casually webbing the door shut before using one of the walls of the roof access and the building next door to begin work on his hammock. Using his least sticky webbing variant, he was usually able to make something that was really more like a cocoon, keeping him from literally freezing to death.

 

“My favorite,” Peter said aloud, prying two of the strands apart so he could flop onto the more tightly woven bottom. “Not literally freezing to death.” It was dark and quiet, inside the web, but Peter knew from experience that he would be able to pick up on disturbances from outside, so he wasn’t so much worried about that. What he worried about, lying here in his cocoon, was how long it would be before he managed to fall asleep.

 

He didn’t bother trying to get eight hours, anymore: it was pointless. He would just lie awake and agonize over everything that had gone wrong. He didn’t want to let himself dwell on the past like that. That was why he only let himself rest like this, no distractions, when he was sure that he would fall asleep on his feet otherwise.

 

He wasn’t always correct.

 

“Go to sleep,” he whispered firmly to himself, but he didn’t even bother to close his eyes. He just followed the lines of the webbing above him. “Go to sleep, Peter. You need to sleep.” He could feel his heart beating too forcefully in his chest and he heaved a sigh, demanding that he not panic. He hated feeling this way, tired and restless and afraid, but the panic was significantly worse. He would take this  _ any _ day, every day for the rest of his life, if it meant no one else ever saw him having a panic attack.

 

At least Gwen had finally been able to identify for him what was actually happening. It was nice to know that he wasn’t really dying, no matter how much it felt like it. He just wished that she hadn’t had to  _ see _ .

 

Peter squeezed his eyes shut,. “Go to sleep!” He insisted again, fingers fiddling with the triggers of his web shooters. He thought of Gwen, asleep in her bed. It was warming up, in his shelter, but he was still a little jealous of the temperature in her room. He missed his own room.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

Don’t think about it.

 

He repeated that in his head until he finally fell asleep.

 

\---

 

The final bell rang and Gwen pulled her backpack on, rushing out of class in order to get to the hall before the rest of the students. Her heart was pounding. Today was the day: she had finally found a way to help Peter, even if it was just a little.

 

A quick stop at her locker and she was out the door. She’d already told Peter that she was going to be home late this afternoon, but she still wanted to get home as soon as possible. Peter had told her he didn’t mind her running errands, but she knew he was lonely. 

 

He tried to hide his emotions from her, these days, but Gwen wasn’t falling for it.

 

Hopefully today would help, she told herself resolutely as she headed for the subway. The F train would take her to Manhattan, and from there it was only about a five minute walk to the Daily Bugle.

 

Gwen thought about Peter, fingers fiddling with her bag. She found herself looking up a lot more, these days. Although she never spotted him, there was always the possibility that Spider-Man would swing by, and she was dying to see that. She hadn’t seen Peter in action since she found out who he was.

 

Her thoughts turned to that cold night just over a month ago. Having only met Spider-Man twice, seeing him at her bedroom window in the middle of the night had been jarring, to say the least, but when he ripped off his mask to reveal her boyfriend underneath… she’d been shaken, to say the least.

 

Bad news following immediately on his heels hadn’t helped. But what could she do but bring him inside? She would never turn him away. It certainly explained a lot, though, she thought with a grimace. His recurrent lateness, his bad habit of not returning calls or texts, and the constant poorly-hidden rash of injuries.

 

As Gwen crammed herself onto the subway with the other commuters, she tried to decide whether she should be worrying more or less about Peter, now that she knew his secret. It wasn’t the first time she’d debated the pros and cons with herself, and she was sure that it wouldn’t be the last.

 

She knew, now, that he was fighting criminals and supervillains on a daily basis. How could she  _ not _ be worried?

 

But he also had  _ superpowers _ .

 

But he kept coming home  _ hurt. _

 

But he was  _ usually  _ feeling better by the next time she saw him.

 

He spent his time  _ seeking out _ trouble. And he usually found it!

 

But he still came away victorious. Even the  _ Avengers  _ acknowledged that.

 

That train of thought distracted her from her internal debate. Not only did the Avengers  _ know _ her boyfriend, they liked him. Hung out with him. Invited him to the tower. She was a little jealous. Peter had delivered several play-by-plays of his adventures in the tower, and the causal camaraderie they implied was stunning. Peter Parker, friends with the Avengers!

 

It seemed somehow both fake and natural at the same time.

 

Gwen shuffled off the subway when it reached her stop, steeling herself. She struck out at a brisk walk, wanting both to get this over with and to get out of the cold as soon as possible.

 

She kept her eyes on the sky, but there was no sign of Spider-Man. She wasn’t worried, she told herself. New York was a big city, and he normally stuck to Queens anyway, unless there was something to draw him elsewhere. Honestly, it would be more troubling if she  _ did _ see him in Manhattan. But that didn’t stop her from looking.

 

Gwen entered the Daily Bugle building, fingers scrunching up the strap of her bag in her nervousness. She remembered the directions Peter had given her and found the elevator, jamming her shaking thumb against the button for the top floor. She got a few strange looks from the other occupants of the lift, but she ignored them in favor of pulling the portfolio Peter had given her out of her bag with fumbling hands.

 

She’d heard from Peter over and over again how intimidating Jameson was. She knew his reputation. She’d read his articles on Peter. She was definitely nervous about meeting him. It wasn’t that she was some meek, wilting flower or anything, just… she thought it was reasonable to be wary.

 

Gwen stepped out of the elevator onto a busy floor. Reporters, she assumed, rushing to and fro. Peter had told her that no one on this floor ever seemed to slow down: they probably didn’t want Jameson to catch them slacking off, he had said.

 

Her eyes found the brown bob Peter had described: that must be Jameson’s secretary, Betty Brant. She scurried over, carefully weaving through the rushing adults in order to not get trampled before finally popping up in front of the secretary’s desk.

 

“Good afternoon,” The woman greeted her, eyeing her in a way that wasn’t necessarily unfriendly, but certainly skeptical. “How can I help you?”

 

“Hi,” Gwen’s fingers traced nervously against the rim of the manilla folder Peter had packaged his prints into. “I, um, I heard that you guys were still looking for new photos of Spider-Man, right? I have these,” She held it up slightly. “That I was hoping to show Mr. Jameson.” Betty’s lips pursed.

 

“Mr. Jameson is… very specific about what he wants,” The woman warned her, and Gwen nodded quickly.

 

“I know. May I see him?”

 

Betty held out a hand. “Do you mind?” Gwen slid the portfolio into her grip before returning her nervous hands to her bag. She waited in silence as Betty opened the folder and started to flip through the pictures. Gwen saw her eyebrows lift. “These aren’t bad,” she commented. “They’re almost as good as…”

 

“Peter’s?” Gwen supplied, mouth twisting into a sad smile. It hadn’t really occurred to her until now that people at the Bugle might be missing Peter, too. That boy had a bigger impact on this city than he realized, she thought, even without the mask.

 

Betty looked up at her, surprised, then nodded. “Do you know him?”

 

“I’m his girlfriend,” Gwen answered, pushing hair back behind her ear as Betty’s expression opened.

 

“That’s  _ you _ ,” He had talked about her? “You’re Pete’s girlfriend. What’s your name?”

 

“Gwen Stacy,” Gwen answered promptly, straightening a little, and Betty gave her a significantly warmer look.

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Gwen,” The teenager didn’t hesitate to accept the handshake the woman offered her. “Peter was clearly very fond of you.” Gwen flinched a little at the use of the past tense, and Betty pulled her hand away, looking apologetic. “How are you doing?”

 

“I’m okay,” Gwen’s eyes dropped. “I miss him.”

 

“I know,” Betty’s voice was a sigh. “We all miss him, too. He was such a bright presence around here. I’m so sorry.” Gwen’s stomach twisted sharply at that second use of the past tense. She  _ knew _ Peter was okay: she saw him every day. But it still put a cold ache in her to hear it. Everyone thought he was  _ dead _ by now. He’d been missing a month with no reported sightings and now everyone thought he was  _ dead. _ When Gwen didn’t answer, Betty seemed determined to change the subject. “Mr. Jameson probably  _ will  _ want to look at these,” she assured Gwen, handing the folder back to her. “But unfortunately he’s at a meeting, right now.”

 

“When will he be back? Can I wait? It’s kind of a long commute,” Gwen pled, pulling the folder flat to her chest. She was suddenly desperate to talk to Peter, but she knew that there were hours to go.

 

“Of course,” Betty gestured to three chairs on the wall adjacent to Jameson’s door. “Feel free. He should be back shortly.”

 

“Thank you,” Gwen ducked her head and crossed the small space to the empty chairs, settling down into one. She stared down at the folder in her hands, assuring herself again that Peter was fine and she would see him that night. All she had to do was be patient.

 

She opened the folder and looked through the pictures again.

 

One of Peter partway through a midair backflip, silhouetted perfectly between two high-rises. That artsy twerp, she thought fondly. It was beautiful.

 

There was one of him swinging on a web directly towards the camera. How did Peter never get caught at this? Did no one think that Spider-Man would  _ see _ the photographer practically at his feet?

 

This one showed him crouched on top of a building, leaning forward, arm extended as if preparing to shoot a web. Did this technically make Peter a model? There were an  _ awful _ lot of published photos that he had deliberately posed for.

 

That thought brought a smile to her lips and she made a mental note to tease Peter about the fact that she was dating a model, later on.

 

The elevator door opened and there was an immediate rise in volume in the room. Gwen’s head whipped up and her eyes located the source of the noise: there were five adult men piling out of the elevator, but one of them was shouting.

 

“I don’t  _ give  _ a hoot about new recycling programs,” He barked. “What do you think this is, some kind of eco-obsessed rag? No! This is a  _ news _ paper. Do you understand that? We print the  _ news _ , here. And the news is that Spider-Man is on the streets more than ever! That degenerate is doing whatever he wants, whenever he wants to do it! Get me stories about  _ Spider-Man _ , dim-wit, and bump the recycling crap back to the Culture page.” He was just about to storm right by her when he seemed to catch her eye. “Ms. Brant, why is there a teenager hanging around outside my office?” He had a scowl on his face, but Gwen jumped to her feet anyway.

 

“My name is Gwen Stacy, sir,” She said quickly, thrusting out her hand. Jameson didn’t look inclined to take it so she withdrew it as she continued. “I have some pictures of Spider-Man I think you might be interested in.”

 

“Oh, really?” He cast a sour look over at Betty, who lifted her eyebrows and nodded once. Gwen just caught him rolling his eyes as he looked at her again. “Alright, fine. Get in here.” The crowd around him dispersed, looking somewhat relieved, and Gwen followed him into his office. “Shut the door— oh.” Gwen beat him to it, giving him a winning smile as she crossed to stand in front of his desk. “Let’s see these pictures of yours, then,” He held out his hand impatiently and she pressed the folder into it. He flipped it open, shoulders stiffening a little as he looked through the pictures, but that was her only clue as to his opinion. His face remained a permanent frown.

 

“So?” Gwen pressed, and he gave her a look that could practically be called a stink eye.

 

“Hold your horses,” he demanded, flipping through all ten of the photos that Peter had sent her with. “These are  _ garbage _ ,” he eventually proclaimed, and Gwen flinched at the vehemence in his voice. Pete had warned her, but it hadn’t really been enough to prepare her, she supposed. “You took these?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Gwen agreed. She didn’t like to lie, but she couldn’t exactly tell him that they belonged to Peter Parker. He’d never buy them, then.

 

“You’re lucky that there’s been a serious shortage of Spider-Man pictures, lately,” Jameson scoffed. “Or I wouldn’t take any of these.” Gwen brightened immediately.

 

“So you want some of them?”

 

“Twenty-five bucks each for all ten of them.”

 

“What?” Gwen straightened up, frowning at the man. “You’re kidding, right?”

 

“Take it or leave it, kid,” Jameson suggested, shooting her a scowl back. “You think you’re good enough to be asking more than that?”

 

“As a matter of fact I do,” Gwen answered primly, arms crossing over her chest. “I know for a fact that you paid Peter Parker more than that, and I know that these are just as good as anything Pete ever took.”

 

Jameson looked at her, calculating. “You knew Parker?” There was that past tense again.

 

“I  _ know _ Peter,” she corrected him firmly, arms drawing a little closer around herself. “He’s going to come back eventually, you know. And he’ll want his job back. But until then, I’m going to keep it warm for him so that you don’t give it to someone else. He’s the one who taught me how to get the good Spider-Man shots, so it’s not like they’re  _ worse  _ than his, and nothing you tell me is going to change that. But fine, if you don’t want them, I bet that someone  _ else _ —” She reached forward to take the folder back, but Jameson snatched it away from her hand.

 

“Thirty-five each,” He snapped.

 

“Seventy-five,” Gwen shot back. It was more than Peter had received, she knew, but hey, this was how bartering worked, right?

 

“Fifty” Jameson offered through gritted teeth, bushy eyebrows low in his consternation. 

 

“Deal,” Gwen leaned over the desk, hand jutted out for a handshake again, and this time Jameson took it.

 

“Have you seen Parker around?” He asked her, and her heart jumped.

 

“No,” she said, eyes dropping. “But I know he’s out there. And he’s going to be back.” A beat of silence, then he let go of her and she leaned back.

 

“Fine. Stacy, was it? Get out of my office. My secretary will write you a check.” Gwen gave the man a blinding smile, then.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Jameson. I look forward to working with you again!” She turned on her heel, then, and strode out of the office.

 

“Ten! Parker’s rate,” Jameson called, and Gwen had to suppress a grin.  _ Nailed it.  _ By the time she reached Betty’s desk, the woman was already writing the check.

 

“Gwen Stacy, right?” Betty double checked, and Gwen hummed affirmatively. “It sounds like that went well. I didn’t hear any yelling. So that’s five hundred for you. Congratulations, Jameson doesn’t normally give such a big payout, especially to his freelancers.”

 

“Thank you,” Gwen dimpled at her, bringing a smile to the secretary’s face, too. Betty ripped the paper out of the checkbook and offered it to her.

 

“You take care now, Gwen,” Betty told her. “And if you see Peter… give him our best.” Her smile saddened a little and Gwen nodded, expression softening to match.

 

“Thank you,” she said again, quieter this time. “I hope to see you again soon.” She tucked the check carefully into her bag and turned, going to the elevator. Only once she was inside did she allow herself to slump, letting out a heavy sigh. That had been… somewhat more stressful than anticipated. But she couldn’t believe it! She’d gotten five hundred dollars for Peter. That boy was going to get a phone  _ first thing _ , she thought vehemently, wishing she could text him.

 

Just a couple more stops, Gwen promised herself, then home to Peter. Besides, she reasoned, she was sure he was fine. He was always fine. She was just paranoid. A worrywart, her mother sometimes teased.

 

Gwen stepped back out onto the street, shivering in the chill. She glanced skyward again, hoping for a flash of red, but there was just the slowly fading light of the winter afternoon.

 

Alright. She turned north, heading for the E. That would take her within a few minutes walk to her father’s station. She walked quickly, wanting to get there as soon as possible. As she moved, she thought of the conversation she’d had with Peter last night.

 

_ “And it turned out that this guy had hired Doc Ock,” He had said, hands working emphatically from where he sat cross legged on the bed. Gwen was sitting next to him. “You would not believe it, Gwen, he was so full of cliches  _ I  _ almost couldn’t believe it, and I talk to cringy guys all the time. But he was talking about how I’d ‘interfered in his business one too many times’, or something like that.” He had used air quotes, then and Gwen had smiled a little. _

 

_ But despite his grin and jokey tone, she knew him better than that, by now. Peter tended to hide his feelings behind that smile. He wasn’t good, however, at controlling the speed of his voice, and it only sped up like that when he was very excited or very nervous. _

 

_ “There was one thing I didn’t understand,” he admitted, fidgeting. “Well, there was plenty I didn’t understand, I guess, and most of it had to do with his spooky memory powers, or hypnosis, or whatever he was doing. What I mean is there was one thing he said that I didn’t get. He said that I’d interfered with a delivery in September. But I don’t remember that at all.” _

 

_ “Really?” Gwen’s brow furrowed. “You don’t remember anything at all that might have been a delivery? No vans, no boats, no suitcases?” _

 

_ “Not that I remember,” Peter answered mournfully. “I feel like if I could just figure out what he was talking about, then I’d have a clue.  _ Something  _ to go off of. I still don’t know who he is, or where he is, or what his plan is supposed to be. But all those guns… whatever it is, it’s not good, and I  _ need _ to get to the bottom of it.” _

 

_ “It’s okay, Peter,” Gwen promised, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “You’ll figure it out. And I mean… it’s not like you’re the only lawman in this town,” she tried to go for a playful tone, but she was afraid that it fell on deaf ears. _

 

_ “I guess.” _

 

Gwen set her jaw firmly. Peter didn’t know what delivery he’d interrupted? Alright. Gwen would figure it out. She’d been inside the police station often enough to know where things were and who she needed to avoid most of all. She would be in  _ huge _ trouble if she got caught, but… she could pull this off.

 

She stepped off the train with a purposeful step and headed for her father’s station.

 

\---

 

Peter was waiting in Gwen’s bedroom when he heard the door open. 

 

“I’m home!” It was Gwen’s voice. He let out a sigh of relief: he’d been starting to get worried. She’d told him that she wouldn’t be heading straight home, today, but she hadn’t been specific about why and he hadn’t pressed. After all, he’d kept his secrets from her for a long time. He doubted that she was getting up to anything nearly as dangerous as he did, so he felt that it wasn’t his place to pry.

 

“Hi, Gwen,” He could hear her mother in the living room. “How was your day?”

 

“Good!” She sounded out of breath, like she’d been running. She probably didn’t want him to spend too much time alone. “I have a lot of homework, so I’ll be in my room. Bye!” Peter hopped up to get out of sight of the door as Gwen’s hurried footsteps rushed down the hall, but he still had a good view of Gwen when she burst in, face flushed, eyes bright, hair a mess. She  _ had _ been running. She slammed the door shut and flipped the lock. “Peter!”

 

“Gwen,” Peter was in front of her in a flash, gripping her by the shoulders. “Are you okay?”

 

“I’m great,” She answered, voice an excited whisper. “I broke into the police station!”

 

“You  _ what? _ ” Peter exclaimed, then hastily lowered his voice. “You  _ broke into the police station _ ?”

 

Gwen grinned bashfully. “Okay, so maybe that’s an overstatement,” she admitted, but, surprisingly, that didn’t ease his horror much. “But I was definitely  _ not _ supposed to be doing what I was doing. It was definitely illegal.”

 

“Gwen, you broke the law? What did you do? Why?” Peter gaped at her, eyes wide.

 

“Oh, don’t act so high and mighty,” She scoffed, settling her hands on his waist.  “You break the law literally all the time.” Peter grimaced.

 

“Okay. Good point. Sorry. But my other questions still stand. What did you do and  _ why? _ ”

 

“Sit down, bucko,” Gwen said, still clearly elated. “Because I’ve got a story for you.” Peter gave her a reluctant look, then turned to go sit on the bed. Gwen hopped up onto the foot, facing him as she dropped her bag on the bed in front of her. “Fun fact, Pete: you’ve got an inside at the police station now.” She looked proud of herself, so as much as Peter wanted to interrupt again, he didn’t.

 

“So you remember how last night we were talking and you told me about that delivery you must have intercepted by accident in September? Well your girlfriend happens to have enough expertise to know how to look up Spider-Man related cases in the computer.”

 

“Gwen! No way!” Peter leaned forward, mouth popping open.

 

“Yes, way! Don’t interrupt,” Gwen grinned at him as Peter zipped his lips. “So I looked up all the cases that were flagged as Spider-Man. There were a  _ lot _ of them, Peter,” she said, a disapproving frown flicking momentarily across her face, but then she continued. “Not counting the copious robberies, assault charges, carjackings, and minor thefts, there were a couple of things that came up that I thought looked likely. Two bank robberies, a stolen cargo truck, and one case of drug traffickers. So I looked into them, and one of the bank robberies never even left the bank, thanks to you,” She gave him a smile that Peter waved away. “And the other one ended in a standoff outside. I decided to keep looking. 

 

“The stolen cargo truck seemed like it had a lot of potential, but then it started talking about impaired driving… and the truck was a Doritos delivery tuck.”

 

“I remember that!” Peter burst out laughing. “Yeah, those guys were… uncomfortably high. I felt almost bad about turning them in. I don’t think they thought it through at all.” Gwen was giggling, too.

 

“Yeah, I think they got off pretty light, as far as highjacking a corporate delivery truck goes.” She visibly pulled herself together but the smile didn’t go away. “So then I looked into the drug dealing one. I mean, drug dealing goes hand-in-hand with sowing civil unrest, which is definitely what someone with that many guns wants.”

 

“Sure,” Peter agreed. “But I don’t remember a drug bust.”

 

“Well, from what I got from the report, you got there after that part,” she told him. “They fled the scene and police were in pursuit, but they couldn’t get close. Then Spider-Man showed up and literally lifted the car off the road, suspending it in web.”

 

“Oh,  _ that _ ! Those guys were definitely up to no good.” Peter’s lips pursed. “So what was the verdict on that?”

 

“Well,” Gwen said slowly. “I think that that’s the most likely of the three, I guess. The drugs were confiscated, of course, and they’re still sitting around in an evidence locker somewhere. The car is in the police impound lot. I think they’re planning on putting it up for auction by the end of the year.” Peter hummed thoughtfully.

 

“Okay,” he shifted, feeling excitement lighting in his chest. “Okay. Well, it’s something. Maybe Spider-Man should pay a visit to the impound lot before that happens.”

 

“Excuse me?” Gwen’s eyebrows shot up. “Just Spider-Man?”

 

“Yes?” Peter blinked owlishly at her. “Did you...want to go? Gwen, people get in trouble for vigilante activities, you know, and that includes breaking into impound lots.” He stiffened. “Speaking of which, how did you not get in trouble for sneaking around in the police station? That was so risky!”

 

“I know what I’m doing,” Gwen quipped back, then grinned ruefully. “More or less. I’ve been hanging around there for years, Pete, people are used to seeing me. Officer Campton  _ did _ almost catch me on the computer, but I don’t think he saw. He didn’t say anything, at least.”

 

“What about security cameras?” Peter pressed. “They must have caught you on tape!”

 

“Maybe,” Gwen agreed. “But they don’t actually  _ check _ those things unless they saw something suspicious. And since no one saw anything, I doubt they’ll go looking.” Peter groaned, flopping onto his side on the bed. Gwen laughed, sounding pleased with herself, and reached down to ruffle his hair. “That’s the weirdest pronunciation of  _ thank you, Gwen, _ I’ve ever heard.”

 

Peter looked up at her, abashed. “Oh, geeze,” He rolled over onto his back so that he could see her more clearly. “I’m sorry, Gwen. Thank you so much. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still have no leads, no clues, and nothing to go off of. You’re an angel and I love you.”

 

“I love you, too, Peter,” Gwen leaned down to kiss his forehead and Peter closed his eyes, lips relaxing into a smile that felt much more natural than the frown he’d been wearing before did.

 

“Hey,” Peter murmured, reaching up to slide a hand behind her neck. “Do you think you can get next Wednesday off from Oscorp?”

 

“Maybe,” Gwen stayed close, one hand cupping his cheek upside down. “Why?”

 

“Valentines Day.”

 

“Oh,” Gwen sat up, then, visibly surprised. “I didn’t think… yeah. Okay. I’ll try.”

 

Peter shot her a grin, feeling himself relax a little. “Gwendolyn, there is no way I was going to miss our first Valentines Day.”

 

“I underestimated you for the last time, Peter,” Gwen promised, her own smile growing wide again. It was beautiful. “So what do you have planned?”

 

“Well, it’s not like we can just go out in public, unfortunately,” Peter’s nose wrinkled. “Not with me being missing and all. But, you know, Spider-Man knows a lot of places with gorgeous views where two people could maybe have a romantic rendezvous? And I bet he’d be willing to loan us enough webbing to keep warm.”

 

“I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean,” Gwen told him, eyebrows raised, but he could tell that she was still happy. “But it sounds great.”

 

“You’ll find out,” Peter assured her. “But just know that it’s going to be really great and you’re going to love it.”

 

“I’m sure it’ll be very romantic, whatever it is,” Gwen agreed, combing her fingers through his hair. “I’m not going to underestimate you, so my expectations are pretty high,” She teased, leaning against the wall to get comfortable.

 

“Uh-oh,” Peter snickered. “I was just planning that we see who can throw gravel the farthest. Guess I’d better switch it up.” They both laughed, then fell into a companionable silence for a while. Peter lay still, watching Gwen as she thought, fingers still absently detangling his hair.

 

She really was more than he ever could have asked for, he thought with a quiet sigh. Not only was she compassionate and understanding, she supported his vigilantism, she took him in when he didn’t have anywhere to go, and now she was actively trying to help him, track down a villain that had been haunting him for months.

 

“I stopped by the Daily Bugle today,” Gwen announced abruptly. “That was the other place I had to go. I got five hundred dollars for you,” She looked down at him, pride in her expression as Peter gaped.

 

“Five hundred? Holy  _ crap _ , Gwen. You’re a force of nature, you know that?”

 

“Yeah,” Gwen flipped her hair causally, smirking. “I know.”

 

\---

 

The power turned off again on the twenty-eighth.

 

Luckily it was during the day, this time, so it was at least slightly less dangerous, if more of an inconvenience to traffic. Peter grimaced, looking down at the street from where he was perched. People weren’t doing very well at driving without the aid of traffic lights. While he could consider himself lucky in that he hadn’t witnessed any major accidents, yet, there had been several small fender benders.

 

The crunching metal sound sent him reeling each time. He  _ hated _ that sound.

 

Peter closed his eyes, reminding himself not to think about it. It wasn’t important, right now. It wasn’t what he needed to be doing. Right now he just needed to keep an eye out for suspicious activity, an ear out for alarms, and-

 

“Spider-Man,”

 

Peter startled so badly that he nearly fell off the roof, but he caught himself in time. He leapt to his feet and spun, catching sight of a flash of red before anything else. His breath caught in his chest, then released. “Oh my god,” He ran his hand over the top of his head, slumping with relief. “Nat, you scared the  _ crap _ out of me.” He shuddered, trying to shake off the sudden surge of adrenaline he’d experienced. He’d thought she was Deadpool, for a second.

 

“Nice to know that I can at least sneak up on you  _ sometimes _ ,” She drawled, voice dry as she strolled towards where he stood at the ledge. Peter automatically tapped his earpiece once: he was finally getting with the program. 

 

“Yeah, I guess I was caught up thinking about something else,” Peter shrugged, grinning sheepishly as he turned to look with her out over the crawling traffic. He could hear the shouting from here: angry commuters trying to make it through town as quickly as possible. Obviously that wasn’t going to work out for anybody. Peter was especially glad for his alternative means of travel, today.

 

“What’s on your mind, Spider-Man?” she prompted, leaning against the short wall around the rim of the roof. Peter crouched down so that he wouldn’t loom over her so much. She would probably appreciate it, he decided.

 

“I don’t know,” He shrugged. “Wondering about the power outages, I guess. It wasn’t out for this long, last time.”

 

“I’m sure it’s under control,” Nat murmured, shooting him a glance. “Although it is pretty concerning that it’s happened twice in as many months.”

 

“I was thinking the same thing,” Peter frowned. “It’s making me pretty nervous.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, where his spider sense was putting off a low warning. “I don’t know what it is, but I just feel like something’s wrong with this whole situation.”

 

“I think I might be able to help you out, if you want,” Natasha offered, and Peter shot her a surprised glance, stiffening as his spidey sense picked up. Was… it reacting to her?

 

“Um” He said slowly, feeling his body tense. “What do you mean?” He swallowed, trying to work through the issue. “Why did you come find me, today, instead of calling me to the tower? Surely you guys have got generators over there to keep everything online.”

 

“There’s someone who wants to meet you,” Nat answered, not looking at him. She had her gaze directed out over the city, again, her intense gaze scanning the streets below. “I believe you’ve technically met once, already, but he’d like to make a more formal introduction.”

 

“Who are you talking about?” Peter demanded, and Natasha chose that moment to shoot him a smile that made his head burn. “Nat,” He rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, preparing to stand. “Where’s your comm?”

 

Her hand shot out, gripping his bicep, and he felt a sharp stinging sensation.

 

“Crap!” Peter stumbled back, shooting a strand of web at Natasha, but she darted out of the way. One hand shot up to his ear and he jammed it three times, then turned and leapt to the other side of the roof. He spun to see Natasha slinking towards him. Now that he looked, he could see that she was wearing a ring with a barb on the inside.

 

“Calm down, Spider-Man,” she crooned. “It’s just a precaution.  _ I _ trust you, of course, but the boss isn’t quite so sure that you don’t want to bring his operation to a close, yet.”

 

“Chameleon,” Peter shot two more webs, backing up, but his head was starting to spin. He wouldn’t win this, he knew. Normally it wouldn’t be an issue, but that ring— what was in it? He remembered, too late, of course, the  _ real _ Natasha’s warning about staying out of range of the Chameleon for fear of poisons. Why hadn’t he noticed that she hadn’t confirmed her identity with him before they started talking? “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

 

“Be sensible,” She— he?— implored, hands opening casually as if there wasn’t a poison spike on one finger. “I don’t intend to hurt you.”

 

“You already have!” Peter barked, feeling his back hit the far wall. Options, Peter, options, he told himself. One: stay where he was and… gosh, he was getting dizzy. Two. Go with two. Peter turned and threw himself off the ledge, slinging a web to pull him away. He heard a shout behind him, but he didn’t stop.  His vision was fuzzy and he felt vaguely nauseous. He couldn’t tell which direction he was going. His limbs were getting heavy and the only thing keeping him awake was the klaxon of his spider sense.

 

He just had to get to the Avengers, they would help. Then he could sleep this off and  _ probably _ not die from it. As long as he didn’t end up in the grasp of the Chameleon, he was certain that everything would be fine.

 

Peter had never been more happy to collide with a metal suit of armor in midair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo much Gwen this chapter. Hope yall don't mind that. I like Gwen, and she's the most important person in Pete's life, now. She deserves to actually get to spend some time with Peter, too.


	8. Too Much, Too Early

**March**

 

Peter woke up in a vaguely familiar room. He gazed blearily around at the white walls, trying to place the faint memory, then startled at the sound of a prim voice.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Spider-Man.”

 

“JARVIS,” Peter tried to wet his lips, but his whole mouth felt dry. “I’m at Avenger’s Tower?”

 

“Yes, sir,” The AI answered him. “In the medical bay. It is six fourteen a.m. on March the first.”

 

“Oh,” Peter managed to yawn. “The Avengers brought me here?”

 

“Mr. Stark checked you in himself at two o’clock yesterday afternoon.”

 

“Shoot— I was unconscious for sixteen hours?” Peter lifted his head. He felt unusually groggy.

 

“Actually, I’ve been monitoring your brain waves,” JARVIS answered. “You were unconscious for about three hours, woke briefly, then fell asleep for thirteen.”

 

“I slept for thirteen hours?” Peter forced himself to sit up, feeling hot and sticky. Had he been sweating? Gross. He pushed the blankets off. “Where is everybody?”

 

“Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner are in the lab downstairs. Captain Rogers and Mr. Barnes are in the common room. Thor, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Barton and Ms. Romanoff are not currently in the tower.”

 

So it was just four of the Avengers hanging around right now. Peter was just glad that Mr. Stark had been nearby, earlier. 

 

“Would you like me to inform them that you’ve woken up?” JARVIS prompted him, and Peter could hear the expectation even in his artificial voice.

 

“Uh— no. Not yet.” He fumbled in his suit and was relieved to find his new phone still tucked safely into a secret pocket in his belt. He pulled it out to discover that the battery was only at eight percent, but he was grateful that it hadn’t died yet. 

 

Peter cringed as he opened his notifications from Gwen. There were several messages starting at about nine o’clock and going past midnight.

 

**DancingQueenMaxine: I’m not mad just checking in to see if you were planning on walking me home tonight**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Should I take that as a no?**

**DancingQueenMaxine: I’m gonna go ahead and go maybe ill see you on the way**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Im home safe**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Where are you?**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Are you okay?**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Please answer me**

**DancingQueenMaxine: I dont see any mentions of you online later than like noon today**

**DancingQueenMaxine: I guess just text me when you get these okay**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Im getting really worried**

**DancingQueenMaxine: I dont see any news about you fighting anybody**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Are you asleep somewhere?**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Please answer soon**

 

Poor Gwen must be worried out of her mind, Peter thought guiltily. She would be getting up for school, soon. He hoped that she had managed to sleep. He started carefully typing back.

 

**PumpkinEater: Hey Gwen**

**PumpkinEater: Im so sorry i made you worry :(**

**PumpkinEater: But I promise im okay**

 

Peter wasn’t entirely surprised when her reply came in just a few moments later.

 

**DancingQueenMaxine: Oh my gosh i was so worried what happened**

**PumpkinEater: So I want to preface this by saying that everything is fine**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Oh good**

**DancingQueenMaxine: I feel completely reassured by that full and complete answer**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Thank you my stress is gone**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Wow**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Youre a miracle worker**

**DancingQueenMaxine: What happened**

**PumpkinEater: Really its nothing to worry about**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Fess up Parker what did you do**

**PumpkinEater: I didn’t do anything!**

**PumpkinEater: It’s more like.. What was done to me?**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Okay smart aleck what was done TO YOU**

**PumpkinEater: Dont freak out**

**PumpkinEater: But i think i was poisoned a little**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Peter!!**

**PumpkinEater: I thought we agreed not to use my name to avoid incrimination issues**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Youve got to be kidding me**

**DancingQueenMaxine: That is so not the point here**

**PumpkinEater: Okay thats fair**

**PumpkinEater: Anyway point IS im at avengers tower rn getting detoxified basically and i passed out for like sixteen hours**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Geeze Pete**

**PumpkinEater: So im really sorry**

**PumpkinEater: Im really sorry i worried you**

**PumpkinEater: And sorry i didnt call or text or walk you home**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Im not worried about that pete im worried about you**

**DancingQueenMaxine: You know that right**

**PumpkinEater: Yeah i know. Try not to be? Im really okay you dont have to worry**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Are you coming home today?**

**PumpkinEater: Probably ill let you know for sure later on once i talk to the doctor… i just woke up so i dont really know the deal yet**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Okay. Thank you**

**PumpkinEater: I love you**

**DancingQueenMaxine: I love you too, Pete**

**DancingQueenMaxine: Please be safe**

**PumpkinEater: Okay**

 

“JARVIS?” Peter drooped back against his pillows, feeling tired even from the effort of sitting up for the few minutes it took to talk to Gwen. “Could you tell them I’m up, please?”

 

“Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner are asleep at the moment, but I’d be glad to inform Captain Rogers and Mr. Barnes.”

 

“I thought you said that they were in the lab?” Peter asked, brow furrowing.

 

“Yes, sir.” 

 

Peter barked a surprised laugh as his sleep-muddled brain put it together. He’d thought the team was just joking when they’d talk about the two of them falling asleep at their research. It was… actually super cool that it was true. The Avengers were all so  _ close _ . He wondered if he would ever be on that level with them.

 

Peter licked his lips again, glancing around in the hopes of water as he carefully tucked his phone away again. He wanted a drink, then a shower, and some clean clothes. He needed to get home to Gwen. Of course, she would be off to school before he got there, but he… he would make sure to be there when she got home. No internship today, he reminded himself, pointing his toes and stretching his legs. Oh, that felt  _ good _ . He’d been laying here too long.

 

Peter rolled out of the bed, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied groan. He twisted to each side, then doubled over, gripping his toes as he stretched his back. This was helping him to wake up, he realized with a yawn, so that was a definite added benefit.

 

He heard the elevator door open but ignored it in favor of slowly uncurling his back, listening to the quiet, satisfying pop of each vertebrae as he straightened. By the time he was standing upright again, Cap and Bucky were standing in the door. Cap was smiling, he noticed, and although Bucky didn’t look  _ happy _ , he… didn’t look  _ unhappy _ , either, he supposed. Maybe he should go by Natasha rules, here, and just assumed he was happy unless otherwise specified.

 

“Hey, guys,” Peter chirped, bending backwards until his hands touched the ground. Okay, now Bucky looked positively revolted. Interesting. Further investigation may be warranted, he decided.

 

“That’s gross,” Bucky scoffed, stepping inside the room.

 

“What is?” Peter asked innocently, lifting first one leg, then the other into the air so he did a very slow rotation into a handstand. “I’m just stretching.” He shot a glance over at the soldiers and saw Cap snickering behind his hand. Bucky crossed his arms.

 

“If you hurt yourself it’s going to be your own damn fault.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Peter mourned, his body beginning to curl again. His toes pointed back down towards his head as his knees bent and his body formed a crescent shape, chest and stomach jutted out to offset the weight. “Bucky, what’s the matter?”

 

He didn’t have time to save himself when Bucky stode over and shoved one of his knees, making him wobble. With a startled yelp, Peter toppled, landing in a heap on the floor.

 

“Your own damn fault,” Bucky repeated. “Now get on the bed, you little shit.”

 

Peter looked up at him, a laugh bubbling up from his stomach. He looked so exasperated. Okay, he corrected himself as Cap joined in, the two of them laughing together as Bucky visibly fumed. Not necessarily Natasha rules. More like… mother hen rules.

 

He managed to pull himself off the floor, feeling much more like a person than he had a few minutes ago. He was still thirsty, though. And sweaty. And… kind of smelly. And achy. But somehow it was still a marked improvement.

 

“You seem like you’re feeling better,” Cap remarked, looking pleased about that as he entered the room. Peter sat heavily on the edge of the bed, nodding.

 

“Tired, but not bad. Thank you guys for pulling me out of there. Um. I assume you were involved? I actually don’t remember much about the whole rescue part,” Peter admitted, a hand running over the top of his head.

 

“We were there,” Cap agreed. “But it was Tony who did most of the work. He was pretty worried about you. We all were.” Peter shot a look at Bucky, who noticed immediately.

 

“Stupid little jackass. You’re going to get yourself killed, one of these days. Didn’t we warn you not to trust anyone looking like us outside the tower?”

 

Peter grimaced, chagrined. “I know. I’m sorry. I guess it just didn’t register that she didn’t beep me back until it was too late. I’m so used to you guys being in the tower: you never need to use the comms to tell me who you are, it’s always JARVIS, so…” He trailed off, fingers twisting together in his lap. “Sorry.”

 

“It’s alright,” Cap’s hand landed bracingly on his shoulder. Peter could practically see the American flag waving behind him with a watermarked eagle majestically pasted over it, like this. Peter still couldn’t believe, sometimes, that he was basically friends with Captain America. Not close, maybe, but friends. “What’s important is that you’re safe.”

 

“The doctor says it was a sedative,” Bucky informed him, settling heavily into one of the chairs positioned near the bed. “No sign of any kind of poisons, trackers, that kind of shit.”

 

“Oh,” That hadn’t even occurred to Peter. “Well that’s good, right?”

 

“If you consider almost getting kidnapped good, then sure,” Bucky answered with a roll of his eyes.

 

“ _ Almost _ being the operative word,” Peter grinned cheekily in his mask, shifting so that he could lean against the headboard.

 

“Although it seems to have had a stronger effect than we were anticipating,” Cap lingered near the foot of the bed. “The doctor anticipated that you would wake up after six hours or so.”

 

“Oh,” Peter’s sheepishness returned. “Well, JARVIS said I was actually only knocked out for three. Then I was, um, sleeping. You know, like, actual, not drug-induced sleep. I haven’t been doing that much, lately, so I guess I just needed to… catch up on it.” Bucky frowned and Steve’s eyebrows lifted, so he continued. “I’ve just been… so busy, you know? There’s never not crime to fight.” If only he could  _ find  _ it. 

 

“Spidey,” Cap’s arms crossed over his chest. “How much time have you been spending on patrol, exactly?”

 

“I don’t know,” Peter admitted, shifting uncomfortably. “Why?”

 

“Are you taking care of yourself?”

 

“Yeah! Yeah, definitely,” Peter waved off his concern. Wow, Captain America was  _ concerned _ about him. Cool.

 

“You’re looking thin,” Cap said slowly, and Peter’s hand froze in the air as he blinked, startled. His excitement faded away into a vaguely sick feeling. 

 

“I am?” He looked down at himself. He looked normal, as far as he could tell. Of course, he wasn’t eating much, these days. He ate everything Gwen gave him, and she smuggled him more than was probably reasonable, but between the heightened level of physical activity and eating once a day… maybe he  _ was _ losing some weight. He didn’t feel hungry a lot of the time, though. Usually he just felt kind of nauseous.

 

“Spider-Man,” Cap and Bucky exchanged a glance. Bucky was scowling, but Peter could see Cap take a deep breath before continuing anyway. “If there’s anything you need… even if it’s just to talk, we’re here. We want to help in any way we can.”

 

“Me?” Peter’s laughter sounded more forced this time. “That’s new: usually people want me to  _ stop _ talking. It’s not often I get someone asking for  _ more. _ ” The two older men were watching him, still, and he felt a spike of anxiety in his chest that compelled him to continue chattering. “I’m okay, guys, really. I appreciate the concern and all, but everything’s hunky-dory over here in Spider-Man-Land.” Hunky-dory? He  _ had _ to stop saying things like that to Avengers. “I’ve just been working out a lot: that’s probably what you’re seeing. Looking good right? Haha,” The uncomfortable sound was too false to sound like real laughter. “How are things going around here? I’ve been so busy I haven’t had much of a chance to see you guys. Has anybody beat my ghost on Rainbow Road yet?” His deflection was poor at best, and he could see the disappointment written so plainly on Cap’s face that it hurt. Bucky’s expression had settled into a careful neutrality that cut him even worse.

 

Peter pushed himself to his feet. “I should go.”

 

“No,” Both men said at once. Bucky continued first.

 

“Sit down, kid. We’ll stop bugging you-”

 

“Spiders aren’t bugs.”

 

“I was  _ not _ making a damn spider pun you ass. Point being, you need to debrief with Steve before you can go anywhere, you got that?”

 

“Oh,” Peter hadn’t thought about that. Of course the Avengers would want to know what had happened: the Chameleon had caught their notice, too, and they were trying to learn as much about him as possible. He might have noticed something that would help them. It wasn’t likely, but hey, possible. “Okay. I’ve never been debriefed, before, so you’ll have to help me along a little bit, probably.”

 

“Sure,” Cap’s weary smile pulled at Peter’s heart again as the soldier took the second chair, leaning back into it. He looked tired. Peter wondered if he’d been to bed. Now that he looked, he could see bags under Bucky’s eyes. “Just start at the beginning. Tell us what happened.”

 

“Okay,” Peter said again, thinking. “It’s… some of it’s fuzzy. I don’t remember the ending too clearly. But, um, it was during the blackout—” he cut off. “Is the power back on?”

 

“It came on about half an hour after Tony brought you in,” Cap agreed, and Peter nodded before continuing to the story.

 

“So it was during the blackout. I was just kind of on top of this building— I think it was an apartment, but honestly it’s kind of hard to tell the difference from above, sometimes. I was trying to listen and make sure there wasn’t anything going on, then Natasha showed up. Well, I guess the Chameleon.”

 

“Be more specific,” Cap prompted. “Where did you first see the Chameleon?”

 

“Uh— well I was looking away from the building, and he came up behind me. I didn’t hear him coming,” he admitted. “I was distracted. I guess that kind of made me think it was Nat, too: I usually hear people coming, but he was so  _ quiet _ . I never even heard the door open.”

 

“He’s a spy, too,” Bucky pointed out. “He has a lot of the same skills as Natasha. Since he was acting like her, he would have been utilizing that.”

 

“Yeah— he said something about being glad he could sneak up on me. As Natasha, I mean. It seemed like something she would say.” He wrinkled his nose under the mask. “She— he— came over and stood with me and asked what I was thinking about. It was right after that that my spidey sense started acting up.” He touched the back of his neck, remembering the sensation. “I thought there was something about to happen down on the street. It didn’t occur to me at first that it was directed towards Nat. The Chameleon.” He shuddered, the cold look in her eyes reflected now in his mind. “He said he could help me, then said that someone wanted to meet me.”

 

“Someone?” Cap prompted, leaning forward, elbows resting against his knees. “Who?”

 

“I think… it’s this villain I’ve been trying to track down,” Peter admitted, stomach curdling as he remembered the strange ability that had immobilized him, that night they’d met on the dock. “He said that we’d met before.”

 

“Do you have a name?”

 

“No.”

 

“A face?”

 

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know much about him.” Peter felt ashamed as Cap nodded, straightening up again. He had so little to go off of, he thought with frustration. He needed to go check out that car, soon. He needed  _ something. _

 

“That’s okay. It’s a lead, at least. What happened next?”

 

“That’s when he stuck me,” Peter’s hand lifted to cup the small hole in his suit, skin long healed shut. “With a ring. There was a needle or something on the inside, where I couldn’t see it. I hit the comm, then, calling you guys. Whatever was on it was acting really fast: I tried to get away, but I was already getting dizzy. That’s where the memories start to get fuzzy,” Peter admitted. “But I remember… he tried to get me to go with him, but I jumped off the roof. I don’t really remember much after that.”

 

“I think Tony found you about five minutes after you sent the emergency signal,” Cap told him. “He said that you were still swinging, but completely out of it.”

 

“I think I remember that,” Peter said slowly, blurry, half-there images swimming in his mind. “I ran into something.”

 

“That was Stark, alright,” Bucky agreed, a wry smile twisting his lips. “He was complaining about it until he realized how messed up you were.”

 

“Whoops,” Peter flushed a little, embarrassed. “I’ll have to apologize to him, later.”

 

“Don’t bother,” Bucky said dismissively, shaking his head. “He doesn’t care. Trust me.”

 

Peter wondered what Mr. Stark had said to make Bucky say that, but he nodded without asking.

 

“So that was it?” Cap pressed him, pulling Peter’s attention back to him. “He didn’t say anything else that you remember?”

 

“No, that’s it,” Peter shifted on the bed, one hand rubbing over his chest. It was still tight with the fear that clung to him like a wet blanket, these days. “I didn’t really stick around too long once I realized who he was. Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Cap said, almost scoldingly. “Don’t be sorry. That was the right thing to do. I’d rather you got away safely than risk yourself to gather more information.”

 

“Exactly,” Bucky butted in. “So don’t you dare try throwing yourself into the middle of something with him just so you can interrogate him. You got that?”

 

“Obviously,” Peter scoffed, telling himself that he wouldn’t have done that. 

 

He  _ definitely _ would have done that. He might still. He’d have to wait and see if the opportunity presented itself.

 

The soldiers were looking at him skeptically, Peter realized, and would have been offended if it weren’t totally reasonable. “Look,” Peter said, hands lifting in a placating gesture. “It’s not like I’m  _ trying _ to get myself hurt. I really, really like not being hurt. I definitely do not want to be in this medbay ever again, if I can avoid it. Or, failing that, not for a very long time. It’s embarrassing enough to end up here once, I really don’t want to make a habit of it. I promise I’ll be careful.”

 

“Good,” Cap nodded curtly. “That’s a promise I expect you to keep, Spider-Man.” There was something about the way he said it, firm but slightly teasing, that reminded him strongly of Gwen. He let out a long breath.

 

“Can I ask you guys something?” He leaned his head back against the wall, frowning. “It’s… unrelated, but something I could use help with, maybe.”

 

“Of course,” Cap sounded delighted. “Anything.”

 

“I was just wondering… how do you guys deal? With balancing your normal lives and your superheroing, I mean.”

 

“Well, I don’t think most of us draw the line the way you do,” Cap mused. Peter could feel his eyes on him so he turned his head to meet the man’s gaze. “We don’t really have ‘normal lives’. We’re Avengers all the time.”

 

“That sounds exhausting.”

 

“Son,” Cap grinned. “What you’re doing strikes me as significantly more difficult.” Peter paused, then snorted.

 

“Yeah, maybe. But still, at least I get to take time off to just be a normal guy. I don’t have to worry about the consequences following me home.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s a very responsible attitude to have,” Cap rebuked him gently. “Avoiding the consequences of your actions?” Bucky snorted.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Peter mumbled, shrugging his shoulders. “I meant more like… villains, you know? They can’t find me if they don’t know who I am. I think that’s the only reason I’ve been able to evade Deadpool this long. That guy’s  _ definitely _ trying to track me.” Since their first encounter, back in January, Peter had spotted him several times. His current strategy was avoidance _.  _ That first fight had not been particularly promising, after all. Besides, as long as the mercenary was focusing on  _ him _ , he wasn’t killing anyone  _ else _ … right? So he figured it was best to not engage him at all, if possible.

 

“Wait, Deadpool?” Cap’s frown returned, deepening. “Are you having problems with him?”

 

“Uh— I guess you could say that,” Peter agreed, watching the captain’s face curiously. “I guess he’s been hired by somebody to kill me?” Cap looked so horrified by the thought that Peter frantically backtracked, shooting a look towards a stormy-looking Bucky. “No, no, hey, it’s okay, I’m totally fine, right? I don’t know who did it, but Deadpool honestly doesn’t seem super motivated about it. He probably  _ could  _ have killed me the first time we met— oh, that’s probably not reassuring— but the point is, he didn’t! And I’ve only seen him a couple of times, since then, and I just keep my distance. It’s not like he’s the Chameleon or something, right? He can’t trick me into thinking that he’s Natasha and lure me in that way.” Peter grimaced, still embarrassed by his own stupidity. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t noticed that Nat didn’t beep him back. That was the whole  _ point _ of the thing! Well, not the  _ whole  _ point, he supposed.

 

“Next time you run into him, give us a call,” Cap recommended, face serious. “We can help.”

 

“Jesus, kid,” Bucky was glowering at him. “Seriously, what the hell? Why haven’t you told us about this before now?”

 

“Hang on,” Peter put on his happy voice, head tipping to the side. “I don’t need you guys fighting  _ all  _ of my battles. I can handle some things on my own. I am Spider-Man, after all, remember? I didn’t ascend to mild notoriety by being a total flop. I’m actually pretty good at what I do. And what I do,” He aimed one finger pistol at each of the heroes, giving them a cheeky grin from behind the mask. “Is catch bad guys. So don’t worry: I’ve got this under control. I’m working on a plan.”

 

And by that, of course, Peter meant that he sometimes spent his downtime during patrols trying to come up with a way to incapacitate the man, somehow. It seemed like nothing he thought of was going to be good enough to confront Deadpool. But that was… a problem for another time. As long as he could continue avoiding the man, then it wasn’t even going to be an issue.

 

His reassurance seemed to suffice, as Cap leaned back in his seat, relaxing. Bucky didn’t look thrilled, of course, but he didn’t object further. “You’re right,” he said apologetically. “I don’t want to make it seem like we don’t trust you to take care of yourself. We do. I just want you to know that we’re here, if you ever do need help. We’re always happy to lend a hand. You know that, right?”

 

“Sure,” Peter agreed, head tipping to the side. That was the second time that Cap had said something to that effect. 

 

“It doesn’t have to be fighting, either,” Cap’s eyebrows rose and Peter watched him. “I mean it. If you need to talk, or if you need resources… we’re here. We care about you, Spider-Man. More than I think we initially planned.” Peter felt a twist of surprise in his gut. He wasn’t sure what to do with that information. He knew that the Avengers liked him, but Cap was implying more than that, now. His fingers laced together and he squeezed as Cap continued. “You may not be an Avenger, Spidey, but we do… we all feel like you’re one of us.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky grumbled, but it seemed insincere. He gave Peter a look that almost could have been called affectionate if it hadn’t also looked so annoyed.

 

“Cap,” Peter thought he would feel happy, hearing something like that, but it left him feeling strangely numb. “Bucky. Thank you. You don’t know how much that means to me.” How much it  _ would _ mean to him, when he could get out of whatever this funk was. The leader of the Avengers was telling him how much the entire team liked him! Why wasn’t he more excited? Why did he feel so weird about it?

 

Cap looked pleased, though, so he didn’t mention it.

 

“Can I ask  _ you _ something?” Cap asked, then, and Peter blinked, surprised, then squirmed a little more upright.

 

“Yeah, definitely. What’s up?”

 

“Why did you decide to do this?” He gestured to Peter. “The whole Spider-Man thing. It’s not every day someone decides to get up and try and make the world a better place, even if they  _ do _ end up with superhuman abilities.” 

 

Peter froze. Would answering that be too much of a giveaway? Would Cap be able to figure out who he was if he told the story? Would Bucky? Or, more worryingly, would one of them tell Natasha? She would probably be able to make the best use out of it, and she was the one who seemed most actively invested in figuring out his identity. Although it was  _ Bucky _ who had the most information so far, Peter thought, looking over at the silent man. His face was blank. Crap, Peter thought, if they teamed up, then they might have enough information to start piecing it together.

 

But they had seemed much less interested in his identity, lately. While it could just be a tactic, trying to lull him into a false sense of security, he doubted it. He thought that it seemed more likely that they just… respected him as a hero. As a person. It seemed like they were more willing to let him hold onto his secret identity. At least for now.

 

He must have been quiet too long, because Cap spoke again, shooting him an apologetic glance as Peter turned back towards him. “If that’s too personal, I understand,” The man laced his fingers together.

 

“No— no.” Peter trusted Captain America. He was just asking a question. Trying to get to know Peter better as a person, not as a mark. And Bucky… Bucky was already safeguarding some of his secrets, right? “I… it was early last year. I had just… gotten my powers.” He started out haltingly, but gained confidence as he gauged the expressions of the others. They didn’t look like they were trying to ferret out his identity, at least. “I didn’t know what I was going to do with them. Heck, I didn’t know if I was going to  _ anything _ with them.” Cap nodded understandingly and Bucky hummed.

 

“I was out one night. I was already in a bad mood: I’d been in a fight with… with someone important to me. So when this guy who had been a jerk to me got robbed… I didn’t do anything about it.” It was still difficult to tell the story, Peter thought, even omitting this many details. The night he’d told Gwen he’d told her everything, crying on her shoulder, but he was  _ not _ willing to go that far with the Avengers, no matter how much he liked them. “I’d been using my powers irresponsibly and decided that I could do whatever I  _ wanted _ with them.” He let out a forced laugh. “I wonder if I would have eventually become a villain, if I’d continued down that path?”

 

“I don’t think so, Spider-Man,” Cap said, voice reassuring. “You’re a good person. Everyone knows it.”

 

“J. Jonah Jameson doesn’t,” Peter volunteered, grimacing.

 

“Everyone who matters, then,” Bucky interjected. That got a real laugh out of Peter, and he relaxed a little. “So what happened, then?” So much for that. Peter let out a sigh, trying to keep his voice steady.

 

“I let the robber go. No skin off my back, right? I was such an idiot. You know, I would give  _ anything _ to go back to that night and change what I did. Because right after that, the robber tried to steal the car of- of the person I’d been in a fight with. I got outside just in time to catch the end of it. The robber… he shot my- he was like a father to me,” Peter admitted, voice cracking.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Cap’s voice was quiet. Peter heard Bucky shifting in his chair, but his eyes dropped down to his own lap and stayed there. “He…?”

 

“Didn’t make it. He died there on the street. His wife never even got to say goodbye. I had to sit there and watch him die. And it was my fault.”

 

“It’s not—”

 

“Yes, Cap, it  _ is _ my fault. And that’s something I’m going to have to live with. But it taught me a valuable lesson:  _ not my problem _ is never going to happen again. I don’t want anyone else to have to feel the way I felt just because I didn’t want to help.” He shook his head. “It’s not worth it. I’d rather risk my life every moment of every day than knowingly let someone else get hurt because I didn’t.” He ran his hand over the top of his head. “I know… I know it’s not necessarily the smartest way to live my life. But I think that because I have these powers, it’s my responsibility, now, to use them wisely. To use them to help people. That’s the most important thing I can do and I’m never going to give it up.”

 

That was why he was willing to live on the streets, if that was what it took, he told himself. If that was what needed to happen for him to stay Spider-Man, then that’s what he would do. If he could save as many lives as possible, then it was all worth it. He was  _ not _ leaving this city unprotected.

 

“I understand,” Cap startled him out of his thoughts. “I was just a scrawny kid when I signed up for the war. I would have gotten myself killed, if I hadn’t been given the serum. I just wanted to help, no matter the cost to myself.” He leaned forward and Peter looked up to find the captain staring him right in the eyes. “I think that you and I are cut from the same cloth, Spider-Man. I’m happy to have you on the right side.”

 

Peter’s breath caught in his throat for a moment at that. Wow.

 

“Wow,” Peter managed to breathe again, then saluted with his free arm as a grin spread over his face, feeling his chest loosen a little. Not much, but a little. “Thanks, Captain. I’m glad to  _ be _ on the right side. Especially if it means I get to hear Captain America comparing me to himself,” he added, snickering, and Cap laughed, too.

 

“Bucky thinks the same thing, you know.” He elbowed his friend; and Bucky huffed, pushing the offending arm away.

 

“I know,” Peter grinned. “He seemed mad about it.”

 

“What, you think I  _ want _ two of you jackasses to look after?” Bucky demanded, giving the two of them an absolutely vitriolic glare. “I thought I had my hands full with this idiot back in nineteen thirty-eight but now, eighty years later, here I am with double the idiots and half the hands.”

 

Peter and Cap both stared at him, then burst into laughter simultaneously.

 

“Buck!” Cap was chortling, head thrown back in his mirth. “ _ Buck!” _ He couldn’t seem to find the air to say anything more than that. Peter couldn’t help himself, speaking through the fingers of both hands and the giggles that were spilling out from behind them.

 

“I can’t— I can’t  _ believe _ you just— Bucky! Half the hands!  _ What _ ! Are you even allowed to say things like that about a person with a metal arm?”

 

“ _ You’re _ not,” Bucky answered, looking smug. “But I can say whatever I damn well please. Who’s going to tell the person with a metal arm what to do?  _ Nobody.” _

 

“I haven’t heard you make a joke like that in ages,” Cap was snickering, wiping at his eyes. “Spider-Man is a bad influence on you.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter blurted, one hand going to his chest, and the two older men grinned at him. He’d seen Cap smiling, but he liked that that happy expression was pointed directly at him. Bucky… he didn’t think he’d ever seen him look like that. It made him wonder who Bucky Barnes was, back in nineteen forty. “Alright, you old fogies,” Peter stood, throwing his hands up in an expression of disgust. “Since clearly the two of you don’t appreciate my charming wit and hilarious one-liners, I’m leaving.” He had a lot to do, after all.

 

“Stay,” Cap implored, surprising him. “I’ll make breakfast.”

 

Peter’s stomach rumbled at the thought. “I should really get going.”

 

“Steve’s a great cook,” Bucky informed him. “He makes these omelettes that are to die for.”

 

“Oh,” Peter wet his lips, thinking again about how thirsty he was. “Really?”

 

“I was also thinking about making waffles,” Cap said, voice almost as enticing as the idea of waffles was. “Not the kind that are pre-cooked and frozen: real ones.”

 

“I need to take a shower,” Peter said, shuffling just slightly towards the door.

 

“We have a million showers here,” Bucky scoffed.

 

“I… need clothes, these are pretty gross,” Peter was losing this battle of wills. He kind of  _ wanted _ to lose.

 

“I’m sure that we can find something for you,” Cap assured him. Those two were a killer tag team.

 

“I need to wear my mask, still,” Peter gave one last attempt, knowing that they’d have  _ some  _ kind of solution.

 

“So take a long shower,” Bucky drawled. “And by the time you get out, we’ll have run the whole suit through the wash for you. How about that?” Peter bit his lip, wondering if there was any real reason  _ not _ to stay for a while. Crime rates were really pretty low at six in the morning, after all. It would be difficult to find one just swinging through the city the way he did.

 

“Okay,” Peter finally relented, bringing a triumphant gleam to the eyes of the two Avengers. “I’ll stay. If you guys really don’t mind.” Food sounded great right now. He’d missed his once-daily meal and his body was begging him for nutrition.

 

“We don’t mind,” Cap assured him, standing and gripping Peter by the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you in the shower, then I’ll get cooking while Buck gets the laundry going. Sound good?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter thought, feeling that knot in his chest loosen a little further. “Sounds good.” It sounded weirdly domestic, if he was being honest. It sent a pang of longing through him. He let the captain lead him to the elevator, Bucky following close behind. It felt a little weird, walking between the two of them. Captain America crowding him in the elevator to his right, Bucky’s metal arm knocking against him from the left. He felt small, crammed in the tight space with the bulkier adults, but he felt a little more relaxed. These people cared about him. They wanted him safe. They wanted to help him. If he could figure out how to let them get close without losing his secret identity, then this could be a good thing.

 

The elevator opened again and Bucky managed to squeeze out first. Cap didn’t make it easy on him, though. That man was in a funny mood.

 

“This floor is entirely unoccupied, right now,” Captain America told Peter as the teen followed the men out. “It’s guest rooms, mostly. There’s a kitchenette down at the end of the hall, there,” he pointed. “But you’re coming upstairs for breakfast, right?” 

 

“Right.”

 

Cap nodded, leading Peter to the first door on the right. “All the bathrooms are stocked, courtesy of Tony, of course. And you don’t have to worry: JARVIS doesn’t have any kind of eyes, in there. He does have a few sensors in the bedrooms and hallways, though, so don’t come out without your mask on if you don’t feel comfortable with that.” It was a relief, hearing from Captain America where it was and wasn’t safe to be without a mask. He trusted the man enough to believe him.

 

“Cool,” Peter peeked inside the open door. The bedroom was furnished lavishly, of course, despite being unoccupied. “So… about my costume,” he hesitated, kind of uncomfortable about asking Avengers to do his laundry for him.

 

“Just leave it outside the bathroom door,” Bucky told him, leaning against the wall. “I’ll grab it and get it cleaned for you. Is the voice modulator waterproof?” Peter cleared his throat. He hadn’t realized the Avengers knew about that. He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed.

 

“Um— yes. Mostly. Just use a gentle cycle, if that’s a thing on whatever machine you’re using?”

 

“Sure, kid.” Bucky agreed, eyeing Peter’s sheepish posture. “You want something else to change into?”

 

Peter  _ longed _ to get out of this spandex. “Yes, please.”

 

“Sure,” he said again. “I’ll take care of it.”

 

“Well,” Cap said brightly, hands planting on his hips. “I’m going to get started on breakfast. Bring your appetite, Spidey, because an Avengers breakfast is an  _ event _ , even with some of the members out of town.”

 

Peter grinned, relaxing again. “Okay. Thanks, Cap.”

 

“See you two in a bit,” The man waved and disappeared back into the elevator. Peter waited until he could hear it heading up the shaft before turning back to Bucky.

 

“He’s in a really good mood today,” he commented.

 

“He was worried about you,” Bucky told him, eyebrows lifting. “So seeing that you’re alright probably cheered him up.”

 

“You’re in a good mood, too.”

 

“Fuck off, kid.”

 

Peter laughed, turning to head for the bathroom. “You love me, just admit it,” Peter teased him, excited, now, to get all this sweat off his skin. 

 

“You’re a brat. Go take your shower.”

 

“You’re not my real dad,” Peter retorted, shutting the door behind himself and turning to face the gleamingly clean bathroom. The shower was one of those ones with the waterfall head—  _ good god. _ As much as he wanted to just jump in, he forced himself to check the room for recording devices, first. His spidey sense wasn’t going off, and he  _ did _ trust Cap, but there could be something that the man didn’t know about.

 

“What’s taking so long?” Bucky grouched from the other side of the door, and Peter grimaced.

 

“Give me a second,” Peter called back, finding a towel in a fancy-looking cabinet before tugging off the suit. He could feel it sticking to his skin as the spandex peeled away— a simultaneously gross and liberating feeling. His comm, web shooters, and belt were stacked carefully on the countertop since they could stay with him. He took a moment to check his underwear: thank goodness. Not Avengers themed, today.

 

He wadded the suit up and wrapped the towel around his waist, then meandered over to the door. He could hear Bucky outside, mostly the quiet mechanics of his arm as he moved it, but he didn’t sound like he was waiting right outside. Peter opened the door just enough to wedge the suit out, hesitating, and after a moment he felt Bucky take it from him.

 

“I think you’ve got about thirty minutes, then I’ll be back with something for you to wear.” Bucky informed him, and Peter reminded himself not to talk, flashing him a thumbs up, instead. “I’ve already heard your voice, dumbass.” Oh, yeah. Peter flipped his hand over, pointing the thumb down before pulling his arm back in to the sound of Bucky’s quiet huff of amusement.

 

He flipped the lock and climbed into the shower. He  _ stayed _ in the shower, letting the sweat and— was that blood? Probably— wash away. He didn’t think. Didn’t even sing, despite the fact that he’d probably sound awesome in a bathroom this fancy. He just stood under the water and let the rhythmic pressure soothe his still sore muscles.

 

When a banging on the door startled Peter out of his reverie, he had to wonder how much time had passed. He hadn’t even attempted to use the little bottles of shampoo or body wash mounted on the shelf inside the shower, yet. The water was still hot.

 

“You about done in there, kid? Breakfast is almost ready.”

 

“Uh— I’ll be out in a minute!” Peter called, then slapped a hand to his forehead as he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to talk without the modulator. He didn’t hear another response over the sound of the water, but he could imagine Bucky’s face. He couldn’t decide whether he’d look exasperated, smug, or that casual neutral that meant a million things at once, though.

 

He hastily scrubbed shampoo into his sweaty hair, then smeared the soap over his body. The label had a lot of French on it, which was incredibly intimidating, but he remained liberal in his use of it. If Mr. Stark was stocking it in his guest bathrooms, it probably wasn’t as expensive as it looked.

 

A few minutes later he reluctantly staggered his way out of the shower, feeling warm and boneless. When he turned eighteen, he and Gwen were moving into Avengers Tower, and that was all there was to say on the matter.

 

He found his towel again and wrapped it around his waist, going to rap lightly on the door.

 

“What, kid?”

 

Peter cracked the door open again, tempted to peek out, but he was acutely aware that if he could see Bucky, then Bucky could see him. Bucky had  _ too many clues already _ , he was  _ not _ about to catch even a glimpse of Peter’s face. Instead he slid his hand back out and resigned himself to speech.

 

“Could you, um, hand me…?” A pile of cloth landed against his open hand following an affirmative grunt, and Peter tugged it all inside. “Thank you! I’ll be out in just a minute.”

 

“That’s what you said five minutes ago. You need anything else? I’m not letting my breakfast get cold just because you want to drag your feet.” Peter checked through the pile quickly, grinning.

 

“This is great,” he answered. “Thank you. I’ll see you upstairs.”

 

“You’d better,” Bucky answered, then Peter could hear him walking away.

 

He really liked that guy.

 

Peter went back to set his clothes down on the counter, then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and froze. He’d seen himself, of course, in Gwen’s bathroom mirror, but after a shower, hers always fogged up. This one didn’t, and he could see himself clearly.

 

Hair hung down in his eyes, dripping onto his face. It was getting really long. He wondered if he ought to cut it. It almost didn’t matter, since he spent most of his time with a mask on. He looked himself in the eyes and noticed the purple bags under them. He looked exhausted, even after sleeping for so long yesterday. His heart started to beat faster as he took in the old, green bruise on one cheekbone.

 

His eyes dropped to his chest and he took in the mottled skin there. He had a lot more bruises than he used to, he noticed. His healing factor was still working, he assured himself: he’d woken up in half the time the doctor had anticipated, after all. He just… hadn’t realized he was accumulating so many.

 

As his gaze shifted down to his waist, Peter had to admit that Cap was right. He  _ did _ look thin. His stomach rumbled again and he rubbed at his arms, a chill settling over him.

 

Peter got dressed.

 

His own underwear; sweatpants, probably Nat’s; a Stark Industries tee; and an Avengers hoodie. They fit him better, he noticed, than the last time he’d borrowed clothes from the Avengers. He was definitely keeping all this free merch.

 

He tugged his socks and boots back on, then took a few minutes to scrub his hair dry with the towel so it wouldn’t get his mask all wet. He slid the comm back around his ear and picked up the mask, holding it in his hands for a few moments. Peter stared Spider-Man in the eyes, then lifted the mask and tugged it down over his face. He looked at the mirror again and was stuck by the sight of himself wearing the mask with normal clothes. It was weird. He smiled a little, trying to put himself back into the good mood he’d been in, before, but there was a flat, dull pain in his chest again that he tried to ignore.

 

He scooped up the rest of his uniform and reattached his web shooters, mumbling himself to check that that voice modulator was still working as he strode out of the bathroom, leaving the towel to hang on the rack.

 

“Cap and Bucky are on the common floor, right, JARVIS?” Peter asked, just to double check.

 

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS agreed, opening the elevator for him. Peter stepped inside. “Would you like to join them?”

 

“Yes, please.” The elevator slid upwards and Peter leaned against the back, watching the floor numbers scroll higher until he reached the penthouse. It was so weird, he thought, being here like this. He’d been so closely supervised at the beginning, but now he was practically free to wander the tower: as long as he had his comm, anyway. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what his clearance level was, but it seemed like it was pretty high.

 

The elevator door opened and Peter was hit by a wave of scent that set his stomach to gurgling. Hot food, he realized as he stepped out, had become something of a rare commodity.

 

“Look who’s up and about!” Peter was surprised to hear Mr. Stark. He looked up to find him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed over the band logo scrawled over his shirt. His hair was more rumpled than Peter had ever seen it: he must have just woken up.

 

“Hi, Mr. Stark,” Peter grinned, making a beeline for him. “Yep, I’m back on my feet. Thanks for the help, yesterday.”

 

“I’m just glad you actually called us,” Mr. Stark scoffed, waving a hand. “For once.”

 

“What can I say?” Peter propped his hands on his hips, chest puffing up. “I’m not  _ completely _ stupid. I learn eventually.”

 

“Sure, kid,” Mr. Stark grinned and slapped Peter on the shoulder, squeezing before letting go and turning into the kitchen. Peter followed, peering around his shoulder.

 

Cap was still standing at the stove, several pans on the burners. Bucky was at the table, tucking singlemindedly into an entire plate of bacon. Dr. Banner was also inside, scooping chopped fruit into a bowl.

 

“Good morning, Dr. Banner,” Peter called, and all three sets of eyes turned towards him.

 

“Spidey,” His voice was still sleep rough. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Good,” Peter stretched his arms above his head. “Super hungry, though.”

 

“Well eat up,” Cap urged him. “There’s plenty to go around.”

 

“Thanks,” Peter grinned and slid into an empty chair, glancing around at the assembled heroes. Breakfast with the Avengers, he thought, letting the confusing, tumbling emotions roil in his chest. It wasn’t Aunt May.

 

But it was something. 

 

\---

 

“Yoo-hoo,” A high pitched voice cried from down below. “Spider-Man!”

 

Peter glanced down and saw a woman standing on the street, waving a gloved hand up at him. He nearly missed his next swing, taking in the strange sight before him. A woman dressed in what looked like a late eighteenth century outfit, complete with a large hat, parasol, and an old fashioned baby carriage. Was there some kind of costume party or something nearby?

 

Peter was already running late: he was supposed to have met Gwen at the impound lot an hour ago, but he got distracted. But there was a civilian calling him down below… she might be in trouble. He had to at least check.He swung low, dropping down and jogging towards the woman from behind. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he called, glancing towards the baby carriage. “How can I…help...” Was it just Peter, or was that baby a machine gun?

 

The woman turned to face him, smiling through a red and black mask.

 

“Deadpool!” Peter exclaimed, scandalized, but his spider sense was blaring so he dove out of the way just in time to avoid the rain of bullets Deadpool unleashed from a semi-automatic rifle he’d apparently had stashed under his skirt. “What the heck? Who does things like this?” Peter demanded, gesturing wildly towards Deadpool, who delicately lifted one hand— he was wearing his regular gloves  _ under _ the fancy white ones, Peter could see— to his cheek, as if he were embarrassed.

 

“I just like to look a little special, sometimes,” Deadpool crooned. “And since this is our second date, I thought I’d spruce up a little.” Peter spluttered until he saw Deadpool’s hand going back to the trigger. He could hear people screaming as more bullets sprayed in his direction, and he realized that Deadpool had chosen to confront him in the middle of a crowded street this time.

 

Muted horror settling into his stomach, Peter slung a web, ready to launch into the air and make his escape.

 

“Uh-uh, Spidey, you can’t ditch me this time,” Deadpool cried, and Peter was shocked when Deadpool managed to shoot directly through the line, severing it. No one had ever done that, before. “You and me are gonna dance. I brought  _ way _ too many weapons to only get to use  _ one _ of them.”

 

Peter glanced around, and he could see pedestrians scrambling to get out of the line of fire.  What if he ran and Deadpool fired on them? He had to at least stall for time for them to get away.

 

He shot a web at Deadpool instead, and the man dodged. The web snagged on the baby carriage and Peter tugged, wanting to take at least one of the guns away from the merc. Imagine his surprise when the thing toppled and sent guns spilling out over the sidewalk.

 

“Spidey,” Deadpool whined, staring down at the mess. “Look what you did!” 

 

“Here, I’ll help you pick them up,” Peter offered, yanking guns off the ground and webbing them to a light post as quickly as he could. 

 

“Hey, shit,” Deadpool leapt forward, scrambling to collect them into his skirt. “Those are mine!”

 

“You don’t need them,” Peter retorted, spraying a firm coat over what he’d managed to capture so that Deadpool wouldn’t be able to pull them out. He heard a click and leapt scrambled up the post, hastily gaining higher ground as Deadpool fired a pistol his way.

 

“While I appreciate the vote of confidence, because you’re right, I definitely  _ don’t _ ,” Deadpool sighed. “Guns aren’t cheap, baby boy. So even though I  _ can _ kill you with my katanas doesn’t mean I want to lose the significant investment that those guns signify,” He sniffled and seemed to pout. “Besides, I named them all already, so I’m attached. You wouldn’t take babies from their mother, would you?”

 

“Is that what this whole dress and carriage schtick is?” Peter demanded, leaping off the pole and swinging down towards Deadpool. “Maternal feelings for your guns?”

 

“Nah,” Deadpool shot out his webbing again and Peter yelped, hitting the ground in a roll. He had to scramble away on all fours to avoid getting shot. “It just happened to fit really well, so I’m rolling with it.”

 

“Then why  _ are _ you dressed like that?” Peter called, ducking behind a car for a moment to check himself for injuries. “Kicks?” He patted over his body and was relieved to find himself whole.

 

“Well, first of all, I look incredibly fetching, don’t you think?” Peter could hear heels clicking against the asphalt of the street. “And anyway, it  _ worked _ . You didn’t run away, this time, so clearly it was the right call.” Peter’s head whipped around in time to see Deadpool peeking over the hood of the car at him. “Peekaboo,” He aimed the gun over the edge and Peter threw himself underneath, scrambling out the other side. It was the wrong call.

 

His path must have been too predictable and there was nowhere else to go: Deadpool’s gun was already trained on him as he slid out the other side. It was only through a combination of superhuman reflexes and speed that it wasn’t his head that got hit.

 

The crack of the gun significantly preceded the blossoming pain in his side: he didn’t notice it until after he’d staggered to his feet. He flung out an arm to shoot a web and the movement pulled at his side, causing him to gasp and grab at it. Oh, crap.

 

Deadpool was staring at him, almost taken aback. “Wow,” he said, sounding impressed. “I’d started to think that I wasn’t going to get you.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter gasped, head spinning as the pain hit him like a hammer. This was even worse than being stabbed. He felt sick as stabbing pain washed over him in waves.

 

“I almost feel bad,” Deadpool admitted, lifting his pistol again to aim at the wobbling hero. He was still, Peter noticed, holding his skirt up to support all the guns he’d managed to scoop off the street. “I had all this planned. All these guns. Swords. Knives. A couple grenades. I expected this to last a lot longer, if I’m being honest, Spidey. I’m disappointed. Well,” he sighed and Peter saw his finger twitch on the trigger as he prepared to pull it. “At least I’m about to be rich.” Peter threw a web out, yanking the gun from his hand, then a second, ripping his skirt clean off.

 

The fabric ripped away and the guns clattered onto the pavement again, causing Deadpool to cry “Not again!” even as both hands swung down to cover the space between his legs despite the fact that he was clearly wearing the entirety of his suit underneath the dress. Peter made a mental note to comment on how weird that guy was once his life wasn’t in danger.

 

He took a step and nearly slipped in a puddle of blood that was dripping down his leg. He might actually throw up, Peter realized as he shot a web at Deadpool’s face. Could he swing, with a bullet in his side?  _ Crap _ , it was hard to think, with that agony radiating out from his hip.

 

“Spidey, you absolute  _ cad _ ,” Deadpool scolded him before seeming to realize that he was still perfectly presentably dressed. He scooped another handgun from the street. “I expected better from you, honestly!”

 

Peter sucked in a sharp breath and managed not to scream as he threw himself forward, physically knocking the gun out of Deadpool’s hand. The man threw a punch but Peter pushed his arm away, one hand still gripping the bullet wound. He could feel blood oozing out from between his fingers, he noticed with an almost clinical detachment. He felt hot.

 

He threw a punch of his own and Deadpool grabbed his arm, tossing him over his shoulder and Peter couldn’t contain the shout of agony, then, bouncing off the hood of a car and landing behind it. He gasped, trying to find his breath, but he could hear Deadpool’s heels again as he followed at a run.

 

Peter pushed himself back to his feet, and by some miracle his unbalanced staggering managed to lead him out of the path of Deadpool’s charge. Peter leapt after him, crying out through gritted teeth as he latched onto Deadpool’s back. One elbow hooked around his neck as he tried to cut off the man’s air supply, but he’d never tried the move before, and he wasn’t sure he was doing it right. Deadpool grunted at him, managing to punch Peter in the face over one shoulder. There wasn’t much force behind it, but the additional pain on top of the gunshot wound was  _ not _ fun. Peter pushed harder against his windpipe, torn between the need to win and the fear of killing him by accident.

 

The street was quiet, aside from the scuffling sounds of the two men. People were less willing to stick around for an active gunman than a supervillain, Peter supposed.

 

Peter didn’t know how to do this, he thought anxiously. Usually he just punched a mugger in the face and webbed him to the ground and that was the end of it. He wasn’t used to fighting people who were so much better at it than he was.

 

He managed to avoid a second jab from Deadpool’s fist, but then one hand reached back and grabbed at the neglected wound, fingers digging in and Peter wailed, grip tightening, then loosening as he tried to pull away.

 

Deadpool’s fingers closed on the top of his head and Peter pushed off of the mercenary, sprawling to the ground behind him. It was really bright out, he realized dully, eyes trained on the wadded cloth in Deadpool’s hand as the assassin turned to face him.

 

Time froze as the two costumed supers stared at each other, both of them trying to catch their breath. Peter’s face was completely exposed, pain and terror written all over it, and he could practically see Deadpool’s incredulous gaze from behind the white eyes of the mask.

 

“Holy shit,” Deadpool gasped, fingers slackening, and Peter webbed the mask out of his hand, a million alarms going off in his head at once.

 

“Oh, no,” Peter managed to pull himself back to his feet, yanking his mask back on. It wasn’t on straight, but it was good enough. He webbed Deadpool’s feet to the ground, all the way up to the knees, then threw himself forward to punch the man in the face.

 

“Spidey,” Peter punched him in the gut and heard another grunt of pain above his own agonized whimper. “Hang on—  _ oof—” _ Another punch to the face, but the guy still wasn’t going down. “How old  _ are _ you even?” Deadpool demanded and Peter hit him again, feeling his jaw crack under the force. One more punch, stronger than the others, sent the man sprawling, and Peter fled, throwing himself into the air despite the rippling pain spreading all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. He heard Deadpool calling from behind him but he didn’t bother to pause, instead throwing himself through the city streets, trying not to drip blood on the pedestrians.

 

He wound up on a roof some fifteen minutes away, lying on his back and trying not to scream as he sprayed webbing over the gunshot wound. What should he do? What the heck was he supposed to do in this situation? He’d never been shot before. He’d never even had to prepare for getting shot. He’d always been  _ so sure _ that he wasn’t going to get shot.

 

And on top of that, he’d been unmasked. Deadpool, the assassin, the mercenary, the guy who’d been trying to kill him for  _ two months _ had just seen his face. He would track Peter down. He would go after Gwen. He would find her and her family.

 

He groaned aloud, both hands pressing hard to his side as if he could stem the pain that way. He had to… he had to do something. Peter had to take care of this before he could do anything else. The webbing was already soaking through.

 

Calling the Avengers was his first thought, and his fingers were halfway to his ear before he caught himself and let his arm drop again. It had only been like,  _ two weeks _ since he was in their medical bay, Peter thought with frustration. If this kept up, then they might think that he really couldn’t take care of himself. They might try and convince him to hang up the mask. He didn’t want them to know that he’d failed so monumentally again this soon.

 

His left hand, the one still on the gunshot wound, slid slowly around the slick material on his side to feel his back.

 

“Exit wound,” he gasped out, fingers flinching away from the burning pain that made his whole body jump. “Exit wound… exit wound means the bullet is out. I can… I can just— I don’t have to get it out.” He laughed, but the pain that caused tore another cry of pain from his lips. “Freaking  _ ow _ ,” He groaned as he subsided back against the ground, feeling the muscles around the wound spasming painfully.

 

“What do I do?” He whispered aloud, hand clasping over the top of the wound again. Would he bleed out, this way? It seemed likely, even with the webbing. He needed bandages. Real ones. His free hand smeared blood over his belt as he fumbled for his phone. He needed help. He smashed the two button down and lifted the ringing phone to his ear with a shaking hand.

 

“Hello?” Gwen’s clear, cheerful voice came over the line as she picked up, and Peter felt terrible for pulling her into this, especially now that Deadpool had seen his face, but he  _ needed help _ .

 

“Gwen,” he said, and his voice was rough.

 

“Hey, Pumpkin Eater,” she said, not noticing the pain in his tone, yet. “Where have you been? You were taking too long so I went in myself— you’ll never  _ believe  _ what I found—”

 

“Gwen,” Peter gasped again, and Gwen quieted for a moment.

 

“Peter?” She asked, worry seeping into her tone. “Are you okay?”

 

“I need help,” He wet his lips, shuddering as another wash of pain flowed over him. It was coming and going like waves, he noticed with a morbid kind of fascination. Hot and cold running through his veins, dragging pain both sharp and dull along with it. 

 

“Anything,” She agreed immediately. “What happened? Where are you?”

 

“I’m at— uh,” Peter breathed, head spinning. “I’m at 98th and 100th and… 217th. The three way intersection. I’m on top of the car wash— I think.”

 

“I’m coming,” Gwen told him, voice tight. “There’s a bunch of taxis out today— I’ll grab one of those and be there soon. Just sit tight, okay, Pete?”

 

“I need you to grab my backpack on the way; my first aid kit is in there,” Peter’s eyes closed and his fingers tightened on the phone as his body revolted, twitching as another wave of pain hit. He almost wished that it would just stay constant. “It’s on Kissena Boulevard. There’s a laundromat next to a McDonalds— look around the dumpsters out back. It’s back there. The webbing’s probably broken down by now. Nn,” He had to stop to move the phone away from his ear so that Gwen wouldn’t hear his pained groan as he tried harder to press against the wound. By the time he brought it back, Gwen was talking again.

 

“I need to make a stop at the McDonalds on Kissena Boulevard along the way,” she was saying, apparently to a driver. “Thank you.” There was the sound of a slamming car door. “Peter, are you still there?”

 

“I’m here,” Peter agreed. “Gwen, I messed up. I messed up really bad.”

 

“Don’t talk like that, everything’s going to be fine,” She told him firmly. “I’m coming over there and we’ll get you all taken care of, okay? We’ll fix it and then everything will be fine.”

 

“Deadpool saw my face.” There was quiet, for a few moments, then.

 

“There are millions of people in this city,” Gwen finally said, but there was a slight tremor in her voice. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

 

“I’m so sorry, Gwen.” Peter stared up at the sky. So much room, he thought to himself. So  _ much _ . “I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Peter. I’m coming. I’ll be there soon. Just hang on for me, okay? Just hang in there.”

 

“Is that a bad pun, Gwen?” Peter asked with a weak grin, and he heard Gwen scoff.

 

“No, Peter. It was not a pun.”

 

“Because it could be,” Peter muttered.

 

“No, Peter, just stay still.” Peter mumbled something in response, but Gwen’s voice sounded far away. “Peter?”

 

The lights in the city shut off for the third time.

 

Peter groaned, eyes shutting again.  _ Someone _ was out there, doing  _ something  _ evil, and he was lying on a roof, bleeding, helpess to stop it. Heck, he didn’t even know where to begin. It was so frustrating: he wasn’t a detective. He had no clue how to track down a villain. He was a more of a ‘stop the crime as it happens’ kind of guy. How had he ended up in the middle of all this?

 

Peter swallowed hard, shudders running through his body, and squeezed the wound in his side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh snap yall Deadpool saw Pete's face  
> Oh snap
> 
> Do yall wanna hear a fun fact? Shit's about to hit the fan (Willow knows wassap). The next chapter is April and it's called The Neverending Month (Part 1) so get ready for that because it's gonna have FIVE PARTS. BUCKLE IN GUYS
> 
> But for real: I would super love to hear from you guys! Please feel free to leave a comment, I love talking to yall about the story. If you're interested in like, extended discussion, feel free to hmu on tumblr? You can find me at https://iamsuperasexual.tumblr.com
> 
> I love you guys very much, thank you all for the kudos and the bookmarks and subscriptions and hits and most of all the very sweet comments. You have no idea how much it brightens my day to see ALL of those.
> 
> Talk to you soon :)


	9. The Neverending Month (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of April- part 1 of 5. Finally, am I right?

**April**

 

Peter Parker stood in front of the four matching stones, hands shoved into his Stark Industries hoodie pocket. There was no mask, today, no red spandex. He couldn’t wear it.

 

Not in front of them.

 

“Hey, guys,” He cleared his throat when his voice cracked, a watery smile rising to his lips. “It’s me.” A quick glance around assured him that he was the only one around; he supposed that nine thirty in the morning on a Wednesday wasn’t a busy time for a cemetary. His eyes flicked across the names engraved in each stone. Richard, Mary, Ben, and May. He was grateful, at least, that they’d been buried together.

 

“I hope you don’t mind me stopping by,” The air was still cold, but the sun was bright and warm on his exposed skin. “I’ve just been— uh, I’ve been missing you. I thought maybe we could talk.” He stared at the silent headstones, trying to pull his thoughts together. 

 

“I know I haven’t been by in a while,” Peter muttered. “I’m sorry about that. Things have gotten… hard. Things have gotten really difficult since you— since—” He had to take a deep, shuddering breath, eyes drifting back to May’s stone. “I guess I should catch you up. That night, at the hospital, they told me they wanted to take me out of the city.” A tear was chilling on his cheek so Peter reached up to wipe it away as he laughed shakily. “Can you believe that? Peter Parker, leaving New York City? I don’t think so.” He shoved his hand back into his pocket, wishing he had grabbed some gloves before leaving home today. “So… I stuck around. You don’t have to worry, I’m doing okay. I’m staying with Gwen.”

 

“Gwen is being so great about it. I know it’s hard on her and I feel really bad, but she’d probably murder me if I tried to find somewhere else,” He giggled, shoulders hunching. “She’s really protective. You’d be proud, Aunt May. I think she learned a lot of that from you. She’s been fussing at me to be at home more, lately, even if she’s not there.” He swallowed, eyes dropping as his heart clenched. “I’ve been sleeping there, the last couple of weeks. I forgot how nice it was to sleep in a bed. It’s been… months.” He sniffled. “It’s really nice just waking up next to someone, actually. I sleep better. I think Gwen can tell the difference because now if I’m not home by three in the morning Gwen calls me,” He grinned, the expression twisted and painful to hold, so he let it drop quickly.

 

“I’m in love with her, you know. It’s the real thing: there’s no doubt about it.” His face scrunched up as a twist of agony lanced through his stomach. “I think I’m going to marry her, someday. I wish you guys were going to… to be there to see it,” His voice hitched and he suppressed a sob. “Mom— Dad— Uncle Ben— I wish you’d had the chance to meet her. She’s so amazing. I know you’d all love her as much as I do. You guys would get along really well, I bet.”

 

One ratty sneaker nudged against a small, rounded stone nestled in the grass. He wondered how it had gotten there. “What else? Um, so I’m thinking I’ll get my GED right after I turn eighteen,” His voice was rough. He desperately missed school, he admitted to himself. He’d never thought he would, but he longed to go back. The tests, the bullies, the stress… it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it was, in hindsight. “I know that that isn’t what you wanted from me. I know you wanted me to finish high school, then go to college, and graduate with a bachelor’s before moving on to a job where I’d live up to my full potential and be wildly successful. But… that plan doesn’t work so well, now that you guys are gone. I kind of had to make my own, and it really isn’t as good. I can get my GED, I know I can. And then after that I’ll go straight into getting a job. I’m not sure doing what, yet. Although,” His forced happiness returned to his tone, sounding more hysterical than it did humorous. “You know, Tony Stark did offer me a job, once. He didn’t know that I was fifteen, obviously, but he said he’d give me a job if I was ever looking for one. So maybe I can call in that favor in a couple more years.”

 

Peter was shivering. It felt like the cold was a weight sitting on his body, holding him down, making him want to curl up into a ball next to the headstones and sleep. It was becoming a familiar feeling, these days, if he was honest. It was just usually his own thoughts, rather than the temperature, to trigger the heaviness.

 

“I’m basically friends with the Avengers, now. I bet you guys didn’t know that. I go over there for breakfast a lot. I got hurt last month— I’m fine, now, I promise— and Captain America made us breakfast and he said that I should come back, so I have been. Almost every day. It’s really great. They feed me so much it feels like I’m going to burst,” Peter chortled, running a hand through his hair. “I think they’re worried about me. I don’t really know what to tell them, though. I mean, obviously I’m fine, but I don’t think they’d believe me if I told them that. They’re worriers, I can tell. Like you, Aunt May.”

 

Peter hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Captain America and Bucky— the Winter Soldier, but he’s a good guy, Uncle Ben, don’t worry— they act like… like I’m their little brother, or something. They pick on me, but in like, a well-meaning way. And they’re really goofy around each other. You can tell they’ve been friends for a long time, and they bring out the best in each other. Like— you guys. Did you know that if you don’t count the time Cap was frozen, he’s only, like, twenty-five years old? That’s like, basically a college student. And Bucky is his age, too, although he’s spent a little more time awake, doing the whole Winter Soldier thing. But yeah, they always make sure I’m included in stuff, and they always make sure I’m taking care of myself, and…” He pulled his shoulders in. “Bucky’s this huge worrywart, you wouldn’t believe it.

 

“Mr. Stark won’t let me hang out with them too much, though. He says that they’re jocks and that I need to be hanging out with  _ him _ more, or they’ll rub off on me. He lets me work with him and Dr. Banner in their labs. Honestly I’ve never learned more than I have in the past couple of months, even though I’ve been out of school. And it’s all this really crazy advanced stuff, but they make sure I get it. They make sure I’m understanding. I think Mr. Stark is trying to convert me to a mechanical engineering geek, but I’m not completely sold, yet. I’ve seen some of the things that Dr. Banner works on, and it’s just  _ so fascinating. _ ”

 

Peter shifted from one foot to the other, toes curling as he tried to warm himself. “And Clint— that’s Hawkeye, he’s such a doofus. He’s really funny. Who would have thought that Hawkeye would have such a fun sense of humor? We like to play video games together. Word to the wise,” He shook one finger at the tombstones. “Don’t play a first person shooter against him. His magical aim or whatever still applies through the controller. It’s not worth your time. He’s a monster with green shells in Mario Kart, too. I’m just lucky that I’m already so good at it, or he might just take me out with those things.”

 

“I don’t see Sam and Thor, much. Thor is off-planet, most of the time. How cool is that? He really does live on another planet, and he just stops by to hang out or help fight stuff sometimes. Sam actually has a job.” He laughed. “He works with veterans, I think? Like, soldiers. He and Bucky disappear for a couple hours every week, I think it might be a therapy thing. I hope it’s helping him. But yeah, out of all of them, he’s the only one who actually seems like he has bills to pay. I think Mr. Stark takes care of most of them, but Sam doesn’t live in the tower. I think he likes to keep his independence. Like me, I guess.”

 

Peter’s lips pursed. “I miss Natasha, though. The Black Widow. I haven’t seen her in a long time. The guys told me that she’s on some mission, and they don’t know where she is or when she’ll be back. I think she’s been gone since, like, February. I hope she comes back, soon. She’s really intimidating, but also really, really nice, once you get to know her. She acts almost like a mom, sometimes. I really like her.”

 

He watched as the breeze rustled the grass around his feet. “It’s almost like… having a family again, you know? Except it’s a family that doesn’t know my name and has no idea what I look like.” He ran a hand over his face, a tired grin making a brief appearance. “Not that they can replace you guys, obviously. Nobody will ever replace you guys. But I hope… I mean, I know you want me to have that. People who care about me. I think… maybe it can be like that, someday. For real. No mask. I don’t know. I’ve never had a family who knew about Spider-Man.” He sucked in a deep breath, wishing it would fill up the empty cavity that had managed to lodge itself in his chest.

 

“I don’t know,” he said again. “Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. It’s kind of hard to tell at this point.” He looked up, head tipping back to the sky. It was big, sure, but was it big enough to hide everything he didn’t want Gwen and the Avengers to see? He was starting to doubt it.”It’s kind of hard to tell a lot of things, at this point. I really wish you guys were still here. I could really use some advice. I just… don’t feel like I know what I’m doing, anymore.

 

“I wonder what you’d tell me. Aunt May, Uncle Ben… I bet you’d say to go to the police,” He pushed his hand over his hair again, laughing weakly. “Turn myself in. Go live in Nebraska until I was eighteen. You’d say that I could come back, after that. Work for Tony Stark. Well,” His eyes turned to the stone with Uncle Ben’s name on it. “ _ You  _ might not want me to work for Mr. Stark. You never did like big companies like his.” He hesitated before his eyes turned to the older two graves. “I wonder what you would tell me.”

 

He fell quiet, then, staring down at the grass, trying not to think about what was underneath it.

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come here,” he admitted after a while. “Maybe I should just keep my mind on the present. On Gwen and on Spider-Man and on the Avengers. It hurts, being here. It hurts a lot to stand here and talk and pretend that you can hear me. Because you  _ can’t _ hear me and you never will and I’ll never see any of you again, so I should just let it go and move on with my life and wait for everything to be okay again. But…” He could feel his anxiety spiking into a painful tightness in his chest that still managed to feel empty. “I miss you. I miss all of you. And I really wish you were here, now.”

 

He wrapped his arms around himself as if he could seek comfort from his own embrace, but the chill continued to seep into his bones and he didn’t feel any less lonely, standing there hugging himself on the graves of his family, so he turned and walked away.

 

Changing out of his hoodie and sweatshirt into his spandex Spider-Man suit was absolutely miserable, but it put him back into the right mindset, more or less. Peter Parker wasn’t important, now. Spider-Man wasn’t important, either. What mattered was the safety of this city, and to preserve that, he had work to do. Peter slung his way up to a rooftop and pulled out his laptop, carefully setting it aside before fishing the drive out of his bag.

 

He remembered Gwen showing it to him.

 

_ “It was inside the car,” Gwen had forced him to wait until they’d gotten his wound bandaged up, until they’d made their way home, until he’d changed out of his suit into something more comfortable and laid down on the bed. Only then had she brandished the small black device, waving it in his face as she explained.  _

 

_ “Start at the beginning,” Peter insisted, remembering his own debriefing with the Avengers. _

 

_ “Okay, yeah, yeah, definitely,” Gwen sat carefully on the bed by his knees, clearly trying not to jostle him. Peter was grateful for it: the pain of his gunshot wound was beginning to fade as the hours passed, but every movement still sent lances of agony through his whole body. “Okay, so I was there waiting for you,” She shot him a worried look, a frown on her lips. “If I’d have known what was going on with you, I would have come to help.” _

 

_ “That’s not important,” Peter told her with a wave of his hand, very, very glad that she hadn’t been there. The fear of Deadpool was still sitting heavily on his shoulders. It would be even worse, he knew, if he’d seen her, too. “What happened?” _

 

_ “I decided eventually to get started, myself,” She told him, looking torn between pride and shame. “It was Officer Morelli out there at the desk. He comes over for dinner sometimes, so I just… asked him if I could go in and look at the cars. I told him I was thinking about asking my dad if I could have a car and I wanted to look into my options.” _

 

_ “My girlfriend, the super spy,” Peter had drawled, a lopsided grin dragging its way across his face. “And he let you in?” _

 

_ “He did,” Gwen agreed, chin lifting a little. “So I remembered the description of the car and found it, and let me tell you, Pete, they’ll be hard pressed to sell that thing. There are a bunch of bullet holes in it.” She shook her head as Peter snickered. “I can’t believe you’re laughing about then when you actively have a bullet in you,” she added disapprovingly. _

 

_ “Hey, hey,” Peter rested one hand gingerly over his wound. “The bullet is  _ long _ gone, Gwendy. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. No bullet, here. Just a big old hole that goes all the way through.” _

 

_ “Stop joking around!” Gwen scowled at him. “Your wound is serious.” _

 

_ “Aw, Gwen, I know, I’m sorry. But I promise I’ll be better in no time. You’ll see. Anyway, come on, don’t leave me in suspense. You found the car. Then what?” _

 

_ Gwen frowned reluctantly, but indulged him after a few more moments. “So they’d already taken all the drug paraphernalia, obviously,” _

 

_ “Obviously,” Peter agreed. _

 

_ “But I decided to keep looking, just in case. I was really thorough, Peter,” She looked so proud of herself, face flushing, eyes bright, that he couldn’t help but smile. “I found this, taped under the dashboard, way back up by the pedals.” _

 

_ “Can I see it?” Peter held out a hand and Gwen gingerly set it on his palm. “What is it?” He asked, examining it more closely.  _

 

_ “I don’t know,” She admitted, leaning over to look at it with him. A little larger than a thumb drive with five rectangular segments leading to a plug, where it was clearly meant to fit a port, although Peter had never seen one like it, before. Her finger touched the edge of it, indicating the five lights: one on each segment. Only four of them were turned on. “What do you think it means?” _

 

_ “No telling,” Peter blinked down at it, mystified, but then he looked up at her, eyes wide as he grinned. “But you know what, Gwen?” _

 

_ “What?” She asked, brow furrowing. _

 

_ “This is a lead! This is a solid, definite, physical  _ lead!  _ You did it!” He pulled her in for a hard hug and she giggled into his shoulder, hands flitting anxiously around his side. _

 

_ “Be careful, Peter,” she admonished him, burying her face into his neck. “You’re going to make this worse.” _

 

_ “You did it,” He crowed in her ear. “You’re amazing! I love you so much.” _

 

Peter’s phone rang, jostling him out of the memory and he hastily dug his phone out of his bag, turning on the screen to discover that Gwen was calling him. His heart lifted just a little.

 

He tapped the screen to answer the call and stuck the phone to the side of his face so he could use both hands to open his computer. “Hello?”

 

“Hiya,” Gwen’s voice came from the other end, sounding tinny and distant over the line. “What’s up?”

 

“Not much,” Peter decided not to mention his visit to the graveyard, right now. “Just sat down to try and do some more work on whatever this drive is. Are you at lunch, now?”

 

“Yeah,” Gwen agreed. “I had to swing by Mrs. Schwartz’s for a little while, so I don’t have very long left, though. Hey, I’ve got my computer with me. I’ll look, too, although I don’t know how much we’re going to find just googling blindly.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Peter said with a grimace. “But I still haven’t even managed to figure out what this thing  _ is, _ let alone how to read it. I can’t exactly just jam it into the USB slot on my computer, you know?” He grimaced down at the small device in his hand, shifting the laptop balanced precariously on his knees before resticking it. “So I figure it’s better to try and find out more about it before I try and break it open or something.”

 

“I haven’t been able to figure anything out, either,” Gwen admitted. “But it  _ must _ be important, so we’ve got to crack this thing.”

 

“You sound like a real detective,” Peter’s lips turned up a little as he swung his legs over the edge of the building, staring down at the street far below as he set the device aside. “ _ We’ve got to crack this thing,” _ He said in a cheesy 1940s-sleuth voice. He hoped that Cap never heard him say anything like that. Bucky might punch him.

 

“Peter,” Gwen was giggling into the phone and Peter smiled a little wider. Ever since he’d been shot, it was harder to get her to laugh. She must be in a good mood, today. “Be serious. We’ve got work to do and I don’t have much time left on lunch.”

 

“Be serious,” Peter quoted her in his dumb accent, trying to prolong Gwen’s amusement. “I’ve got a hunch. Where’s my giant magnifying glass?”

 

“Come on, Pete,” Gwen’s humor remained in her voice even as her laughter faded and Peter counted it as a victory. “It’s been weeks since I found that thing and we’ve still got  _ zero _ leads on it. I think it’s time to bring it to the Avengers and see if they know anything about it.”

 

“I think you’re right,” Peter agreed reluctantly, eyes dropping to the ground, where two pedestrians were pointing up at him eagerly. “I really wanted to at least get farther than this before having to get help, though. Not only did we not find out what was on it, we can’t even figure out what it  _ is,  _ beyond a storage device. It feels pretty crummy to show up with nothing at all to go off of.”

 

“I know,” Gwen agreed. “Me, too. But it’s important that we get this figured out quickly. If this guy really is connected to all these blackouts we’ve been having, then we need to get a move on before he manages to really do some damage.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, frowning. “You’re right.” He looked up again, frowning across the river at the towering high-rises of Manhattan. “I’ll swing by there and see if Mr. Stark can help. Or maybe Nat will know something about it.”

 

“It’s still weird that you’re on nickname basis with the Black Widow.”

 

“Right? You’d think that her full name would stick around longer than Mr. Stark’s, who actually  _ wants _ to be called by his first name,” Peter chuckled, pulling his legs up and crossing them. “But I just can’t bring myself to do it.” He glanced down at the computer again, checking the battery life. Only about fifteen minutes left; might as well go ahead and head for Midtown. Maybe he could sneakily charge the laptop while he was over there. “You’re heading back to class, soon?”

 

“Yeah,” Gwen sighed. “Five minutes. I miss having you here. It’s lonely, without you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter sighed. “You could be sitting with your friends right now, if you weren’t talking to me.” She was probably tucked away in some quiet corner of the school where no one would overhear her talking to her missing boyfriend on the phone, Peter thought guiltily. 

 

“No, no,” Gwen corrected him hastily. “It’s alright. I’d rather talk to you, Peter. Things are… weird with the girls, lately. MJ’s the only one who isn’t being completely unbearable about this whole situation, but she’s been doing a lot of rehearsals during lunch anyway, so she doesn’t have much time to hang out, these days.”

 

“She’s got a play coming up?” Peter asked, closing the computer and carefully sliding it into his bag with all his other essentials, the drive following after it. It was easier, since it no longer carried his school things, but… he kind of missed the text books.

 

“Yeah,” He could hear Gwen shuffling around on the other end, probably getting ready to get up, too. “They’re doing  _ Alice in Wonderland _ , actually. MJ wants to play Alice, naturally.”

 

“She’s really good, right?” Peter felt weird about the small talk. They were both trying too hard to sound natural. “I bet she’ll get it. I’d ask you to wish her luck for me, but…”

 

“Yeah,” Gwen’s voice fell a little. “Hey— I’ve got to get going. But I’ll see you tonight after work, okay?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll be there. I promise.”

 

“Okay. Bye, Pete.”

 

“Bye, Gwen.” Peter hung up the phone and let it drop into his hand, sighing heavily. He slid it into the bag, cushioned by a hoodie and a pair of jeans, before sliding his arms through the loops and slipping off the building.

 

He let the rush of air over his masked ears soothe him for a few scant seconds before throwing a web in order to slow his descent, swinging over the heads of the two ecstatic pedestrians. He could hear the two women whooping as he cast his next web, but then the sound was carried away as he swung higher, eyes scanning the rooftops for any flash of red.

 

Deadpool had vanished after their last encounter. No more sniper rifles forcing him around buildings, no more attempts at a sneak attack as he fought someone in an alley, no more disguises. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the mercenary ever since he’d managed to get Peter’s mask off, and it was starting to make him really, really paranoid. He didn’t at all trust this sudden lack of presence. It meant something sinister, he just  _ knew _ it.

 

There were so many puzzle pieces, Peter thought with frustration as he traveled. The man from the docks. The shipment of guns. The Chameleon. The break-in to Avengers Tower. Doctor Octopus. The bank robbery. The drug dealers. The drive in his backpack. The blackouts. Deadpool.

 

How did it all fit together? He just couldn’t figure it out.

 

Maybe it wasn’t all one puzzle, he admitted reluctantly to himself, but he had trouble believing that. Sure, he didn’t have any kind of concrete evidence that Deadpool or the blackouts were related to the mystery at hand, but…

 

The man from the dock had money, that Peter knew. He had paid Dr. Octavius to work for him,  _ and _ he’d bought up enough weaponry to fill an entire warehouse. He might even have enough money to pay Deadpool the kind of bounty the assassin had implied.

 

As for the blackouts… Well, he hadn’t figured that out, yet. But he was sure that it was in the man’s evil scheme, somewhere. Maybe this drive would hold the answers.

 

Peter arrived at Avenger’s tower, making sure he tapped his comm as he strode in through the door to alert the team to his arrival.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Spider-Man,” JARVIS greeted him with a warmer tone than one might expect as he stepped into the elevator.

 

“Good morning, JARVIS,” Peter answered, leaning against the back wall as the doors slid shut. “Is Mr. Stark available?” 

 

“Mr. Stark is currently in his lab,” JARVIS answered. “He says he’d be happy to see you.” The elevator started to rise as Peter pushed a smile onto his face.

 

“Level with me, JARVIS,” he cajoled. “Is that really what he said?” Instead of a reply, JARVIS played back audio that must have been recorded moments ago.

 

“The Spider-Twerp is here? Great. Tell him to get his spandex-clad behind up here. I can’t wait to hear his excuse for missing breakfast.”

 

“Thanks, JARVIS.” Peter luxuriated in the warmth from both the air JARVIS was aiming at him and the affection behind the scientist’s words.

 

“Of course, Mr. Spider-Man,” The doors opened onto Mr. Stark’s lab and Peter flounced out. He was getting better at maintaining joviality around these guys. They made it easy, he supposed.

 

“Morning, Mr. Stark!”

 

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Mr. Stark drawled. “And only,” He checked the watch on his wrist. “Three and a half hours late. I think your eggs have gone cold by now, kiddo.”

 

“Sorry,” Peter grinned abashedly. “I ran into a burglary on the way over and ended up getting side-tracked.”

 

“Well, if you’re hungry, we’ve got food upstairs for you.”

 

“Aw, man, thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter pulled up a stool at Tony’s work table, shrugging off his backpack. One of the older man’s eyebrows lifted as he caught sight of it. “But right now I was kind of hoping that you could help me with something.”

 

“Whatcha got there, Thwippy?”

 

“Well,” Peter dug around inside, careful not to flash any of the contents towards either Mr. Stark or the cameras that JARVIS could see through. “I found this… _ thing _ , and I can’t figure out what it is.” He pulled the drive out of his bag as Mr. Stark snorted.

 

“You’re just playing with things you find on the street, now, huh?” His curious gaze dropped to the device as Peter shook his head quickly.

 

“No— it’s related to this thing I’m trying to do. Like, a mystery, I guess? This is the first actual physical evidence I’ve been able to pin down, but… I have no idea what it is.” He held it out to the man, who took it without hesitation.

 

“Huh,” He turned it over in his hands, examining it. “Yeah, this is a new one, for me.” He examined the plug. “I don’t know if I have anything to jam this sucker into,” Peter let out a disappointed sigh. “But I bet I could figure it out.” The teen immediately perked back up.

 

“Really?”

 

“Oh, for sure,” Mr. Stark scoffed, shooting a look over at Peter. “Don’t underestimate me, Spidey. I might not have reverse engineered those little doodad of yours, yet, but that’s just a courtesy to you, as a friend. I’ll have this thing figured out in no time.”

 

“That’s so great,” Peter ran a hand over the top of his head, grinning as the relief washed through him. “That’s awesome. Thank you so much, Mr. Stark.”

 

“You mind leaving it here with me for a couple of days?” Mr. Stark asked, expectant expression on his face. “I want to be able to fiddle with it when I have time, and as much as I like having you hanging around, it actually takes a little while to build new technology blindfolded.”

 

“Blindfolded?” Peter asked, perplexed, and Mr. Stark waved his free hand at him.

 

“Metaphorically, Spidey, metaphorically. I don’t know what I’m trying to make, here, so it’s going to take me a little bit.”

 

“Oh! That makes sense,” Peter nodded, chagrined, and zipped his bag back up. “Well, yeah, definitely. Is there anything I can do to help?”

 

“Nah,” Mr. Stark’s lips pursed as he looked at the device. “I got this. Why don’t you kick back and take a breather, kid? Take a nap or something.”

 

“You guys are conspiring behind my back, aren’t you?” Peter accused him, noting the way Mr. Stark tried to suppress a smirk. “You’re all nags,” he teased, nudging Mr. Stark with his shoulder.

 

“Aw, well we just know that little boys need to have their nap time or they get fussy,” Mr. Stark taunted him back, and Peter had to laugh.

 

“You’re one to talk, old man,” He retorted. “Just you wait, I’m putting you in a retirement home and then you’ll have nothing to do  _ but _ nap.”

 

“Kill me first,” Mr. Stark deadpanned, then glanced at Peter as he pulled his bag back over one shoulder. “Where are you going?”

 

“I’m pretty sure that someone mentioned the existence of food upstairs,” Peter answered, patting his stomach. “Us growing boys need to eat if we want to grow up big and strong, right?”

 

Mr. Stark snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, kid. You know, comments like that  _ really _ make me wonder how old you are, exactly.”

 

“That’s the point,” Peter held out his arms to the sides, challenging, as he backed into the elevator. “I’ll never tell. Common floor, please, JARVIS.” He caught Mr. Stark shaking his head, a grin spread over his cheeks as the doors shut and the elevator lifted again.

 

\---

 

Natasha Romanoff was back in town.

 

After two and a half months overseas, she was in New York City again, and the fetid air somehow managed to be a relief. She didn’t take the car back to Avenger’s Tower that had been arranged for her, instead striking out into the town from JFK. She’d had an itch under her skin since February and she intended to scratch it right away. SHIELD and its damn mission may have waylaid her this long, but now she was on the Avengers’ clock again, and that meant it was time to finally take care of item number one on the agenda she’d been given by Steve. Excitement buzzed in her gut as she finally began to move forward with her task.

 

Find Peter Parker.

 

She’d been in the dark about the situation in New York since her departure: it had been necessary to cease all communication with anyone in the States while on her mission. On her way home, though, she’d been demanding updates from the team, and they hadn’t let her down.

 

Spider-Man was going hungry, Bruce told her.

 

Spider-Man wasn’t sleeping, Bucky supplied.

 

Spider-Man had been attacked by the Chameleon wearing  _ her face _ , Tony added.

 

Spider-Man was being targeted by Deadpool, Steve had included.

 

And in all of their reports was an account of a deep sadness that Spider-Man was doing his best to hide. Although none of them openly admitted it, she could tell that it was making all of them nervous.

 

Hell, it made her nervous, too. So it was time to find Peter Parker, if he was alive, and report his status to the kid.

 

She’d done her research and begun a file. Nat had found out his story, and it was nearly tragic enough to pull at her heartstrings. Both parents died in a plane crash when he was a child, and he grew up with his aunt and uncle. The uncle had died mid last year and the aunt was lost a few months later in a car accident. It was right after that that Peter had vanished, presumably running away. His only living relatives, she found, was a distant cousin in a distant city. One call to his number, asking for Peter, assured her that he’d never made it that far.

 

She’d looked into his work at the Daily Bugle, of course, but there was little there that she didn’t already know. He took photos of the kid and sold them to the notoriously anti-Spider-Man paper. His background clued her in as to why; she was sure that living with a single elderly aunt after the passing of another relative put a strain on their budget, and the kid had been helping out the best he could. She could respect that.

 

She’d turned up his school, Midtown High. The teen was, as Tony had reported, brilliant: his grades were near the top of his class. He wasn’t a part of any clubs, but she found his name credited on several photographs on the school website and, most prominently, in the school paper. There were a few disciplinary marks on his record, but nothing unusual: caught sneaking onto or off of campus during class, a few out of line remarks to teachers, a fight with another student. She found two complaints from May Parker about that same student bullying Peter.

 

That, she supposed, was as good a place to start as any. Natasha headed for Midtown High, swinging through a sandwich shop on the way. It was about ten thirty in the morning by the time she arrived, and the master assassin strolled inside to the main office, looking as innocuous in her plain clothes as any of the bustling teenagers rushing to classes around her.

 

Natasha stepped into the main office, eyes falling on the notice that stated that all visitors must check in. She smiled casually, walking right up to the receptionist’s desk.

 

“Good morning,” The woman, about Natasha’s age greeted her. “Can I help you?”

 

“Yes— I just wanted to drop off a lunch for my nephew, Flash Thompson.” She lifted the bag from the sandwich shop, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m not sure what class he’s in right now, though.”

 

“Oh, how nice,” The receptionist smiled back, sliding a sign-in sheet towards Natasha. “If you wouldn’t mind signing in?”

 

“I don’t really have time to stay,” Nat told her apologetically. “I was just hoping you could call him to come pick it up and let him know that his aunt dropped it off for him?”

 

“Oh,” A nod. “Of course. Flash Thompson, you said?”

 

“Right.” Natasha set the bag on the edge of the desk. “Thank you very much.”

 

“Have a nice day,” The woman gave her another smile and turned to her computer.

 

“You, too.” Natasha left the office, then, wading through the thinning crowd of high schoolers to lean against the wall near the front door. Were there really no cameras over here? That’s what truant officers were for, she supposed.

 

Natasha waited. A few students went into and left the office, but she waited until one boy emerged with the paper bag in his hand, looking perplexed, before she straightened up.

 

“Flash,” she called, and he turned his attention towards her. He was large, she noticed immediately. A football player, if the letterman jacket was any indication. It certainly wouldn’t be surprised, based on the width of his shoulders and his crooked nose. He was practically a stereotype of teenhood.

 

“Yeah?” He took two steps towards her, expression torn between curious and suspicious. “I know you?”

 

“I had a few questions I was hoping I could ask you,” She gave him her best disarming smile.

 

“I have to get to class,” Flash frowned, sidling back a step. He was trying to place her, she could tell. It was much more difficult to be a spy, she lamented, ever since she’d accidentally become famous.

 

“A few moments of your time,” she implored. “You’re aware that Peter Parker is missing?” That stopped him. He turned to face her fully, coming to stand nearby. His arms crossed, the bag still dangling from his fingers.

 

“This is about Parker? Is there any news?”

 

“I’m trying to find him,” she told him. 

 

“I’ve already talked to the police,” A flicker of shame rolled across his face and she felt a coil of suspicion. “I don’t know anything.”

 

“I’m not with the police. I’ve heard that you and Peter had something of a… contentious relationship.” She clasped her hands behind her back, head tipping to the side. “Tell me about that.”

 

“Oh,” One hand lifted to rub at the back of his neck as the shame deepened in his expression. “Yeah. I was… I wasn’t good to Parker. I’d push him around, you know? I’m not proud of it.”

 

“You bullied him,” Natasha confirmed, and Flash nodded once, staring down at the ground.

 

“I backed off, though,” he said, eyes trained on his sneakers. “After I found out I wasn’t the only one beating on that kid.”

 

“What do you mean?” Natasha shifted her weight, one eyebrow lifting. Flash didn’t answer for a moment. “More bullies?”

 

“I don’t know,” Flash admitted, eyes lifting to meet hers again. “I found him one day, in the bathroom— he was all messed up. Had a bunch of bad bruises. It didn’t look good. But I don’t think there’s anybody else around here who would do something like that to him.” Natasha nodded slowly.

 

“You think he was being abused?”

 

“I don’t know,” Flash said again. “Maybe. I’d met his aunt a couple times, though— she was this real sweet old lady. I don’t think she had that kind of thing in her.” The look in his eyes told her more than he probably intended to. She trusted, then, that he knew the type to hit a kid.

 

“Alright. Do you have any ideas where he might have gone? Did he ever mention wanting to leave the city?”

 

“We weren’t close,” Flash grimaced. “He wouldn’t have told me anything like that. Gwen Stacy would probably be your best bet for that.”

 

“Gwen Stacy,” Natasha repeated. She’d heard that name before… hadn’t she met with Spider-Man, months ago? Yes, she remembered suddenly. The girl who had been able to find Spider-Man. That annoyed her less than it used to, now, but it would still be satisfying to see the teenager who’d managed to track down the elusive hero. “Is there a number I can reach her at?” She wouldn’t be able to pull off snagging another kid out of class without someone questioning it.

 

“Sure,” That sent Flash fumbling his phone, and Natasha pulled out her own, preparing a new contact. He paused, then, and frowned, looking up at her. “What was your name, again?”

 

“Natasha Romanoff,” Nat answered honestly, and watched as his eyes widened with shock. “The number, Flash,” she reminded him, and Flash nodded.

 

“Right, right, sorry,” He read it off to her without further protestation. “But— aren’t you an Avenger? What’s an Avenger doing, looking for Parker?”

 

“If he’s still out there,” Natasha answered. “He needs help. And that’s what heroes are for, right?” She turned on her heel and left the school, leaving Flash Thompson standing outside the office with a sandwich clutched in one fist and a phone in the other, staring after her with something akin to desperation written plainly on his face.

 

Natasha Romanoff turned to her phone.

 

**NR: Gwen Stacy, this is Natasha Romanoff. I need to talk to you. Meet me at the Freedom of the Human Spirit statue in Flushing Meadows Corona Park at 6:30 PM on the 14th of this month.**

**NR: If you’re still in contact with him, bring Peter.**

 

\---

 

**NotanInsect: Oh my god**

**NotanInsect: Oh no**

**NotanInsect: This is it its over**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Calm down**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: She might not know**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Maybe shes just covering her bases**

**NotanInsect: Even if she doesnt yet, she will soon!!**

**NotanInsect: Shes a super spy**

**NotanInsect: You cant lie to her**

**NotanInsect: Shell know**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: So i wont meet with her at all**

**NotanInsect: Shell never let that fly**

**NotanInsect: She already knows your name and phone number its probably not unreasonable to say that she knows where you live and where you work and where you go to school**

**NotanInsect: She could just approach you ANYWHERE and then shed have you and you wouldnt be able to avoid her without giving everything away**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Have some faith**

**NotanInsect: Why arent you freaking out about this more??**

**NotanInsect: This is the second threat ive exposed your identity to because of your affiliation with me**

**NotanInsect: This is so messed up**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Peter Parker**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Dont you dare even think that id be better off without you in my life**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: I know youre thinking that right now and youre WRONG mister you hear me?**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: I want you in my life**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: I want you home with me**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: The black widow isnt going to hurt me**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Shes a good guy, remember?**

**NotanInsect: Deadpool, though**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Look ive been doing my research**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: And theres actually more about that guy out there than we thought you just have to look in different places**

**NotanInsect: Gwen wth**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Pay attention!!**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: This is not the time for a lecture on the dangers of the dark web or whatever**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Although it just occurred to me we should have been making way more web based puns up to this point and im disappointed in the both of us**

**NotanInsect: Me too tbh**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Anyway**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: He actually has a website?**

**NotanInsect: What**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Yeah you can hire him over the internet**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: It’s a pretty good website to be honest**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Point being, it says about forty times on there that he won’t take jobs against innocents**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: He only takes out scumbags**

**NotanInsect: Then whyd he try to kill me???**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Well lets be real here Pete**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: I know you’re great**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: But your reputation in this town is kind of mixed**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: If he only reads the daily bugle for example**

**NotanInsect: Good point**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: And you haven’t seen him since he shot you right?**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Maybe he thinks you died**

**NotanInsect: I dont think so**

 

Peter pressed his face into his hands, trying to stifle a scream. Nat was tracking him down. Nat was going to figure out his secret identity. She was going to make him turn himself in, he just  _ knew _ it. This was a nightmare. Three and a half months on his own would be for  _ nothing _ the moment she caught him.

 

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Its going to be okay Pete**

 

Peter stared at her message, face twisting with stress as a single beep sounded in his ear. The Avengers were calling him in.

 

**NotanInsect: You havent already talked to her have you**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: No i havent even answered her text**

**NotanInsect: The avengers just beeped me**

**NotanInsect: I hope its not her**

**NotanInsect: If shes there im going to freak out and shes going to know and shell figure it out without ever having to talk to you**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Maybe you shouldnt go?**

**NotanInsect: But maybe its mr stark**

**NotanInsect: I gave him that drive two days ago**

**NotanInsect: He might be done with it by now**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Right**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Shoot**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: What are you gonna do?**

**NotanInsect: Im gonna go i guess**

**NotanInsect: And hope i dont give too much away**

**NotanInsect: Weve got to know whats on that thing**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Okay. Good luck Pete**

**NotanInsect: Thanks**

**CasperMeetsGwendy: Text me later and let me know how it went**

**NotanInsect: I will**

 

Peter tapped his com once and tucked his phone away into the hidden compartment on his belt, swinging towards the tower. He was torn between excitement and dread; on one hand, his clue could be ready to be interpreted. On the other, the Black Widow might figure out his identity, soon.

 

On a third, more spidery hand, Nat was back!

 

He flung himself towards the tower with renewed vigor. In his panic, it hadn’t even occurred to him that this meant Natasha was home, and suddenly he was eager to see her, identity or not. He had missed her.

 

It was with a genuine grin that he swung down and through the front doors of Avenger’s Tower, jogging into the elevator and nearly crashing into the back wall.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Spider-Man,” JARVIS greeted him. 

 

“Good afternoon, JARVIS!” He opened his mouth to ask where Natasha was before abruptly remembering that he wasn’t supposed to know she was here. Gwen shouldn’t have been able to tell  _ Spider-Man _ about the text. “Is Mr. Stark around?” He asked instead. The elevator doors shut and JARVIS activated the elevator.

 

“Yes, sir. He’s expecting you.” There was a hint of mischief in his artificial voice, and Peter paused.

 

“Is there something else?” Peter asked suspiciously, but then the doors opened and he realized the answer when he saw a familiar face standing near Mr. Stark. “Nat!” He exclaimed, thrilled that she was here, waiting for him. He grinned at her from the elevator for a moment, taking her in. She’d dyed and straightened her hair, he noticed.

 

Very deliberately, she lifted one finger to her ear and tapped her comm, sounding the beep in Peter’s. He laughed self-consciously and returned the gesture.

 

“You, uh, heard about that, huh?”

 

“Yes,” Her voice was dry. “I heard about that.” Peter walked over to her, beaming, and didn’t dodge when she slapped lightly at the side of his head. “Idiot. What did I tell you?”

 

“I know,” Peter shifted bashfully from one foot to another. “Sorry.”

 

“As long as you learned your lesson,” She told him firmly, but Peter was done with the whole lecture charade. He threw his arms around her and hugged her tightly, managing to elicit a huff of surprise from the spy.

 

“I did,” he promised, delighted when he felt her return the embrace.

 

“Did you miss me, solnyshko?” She asked, and he didn’t recognize the word, but the way she said it made him think it was something nice. 

 

“Yeah. It’s good to have you back.” She gave him a squeeze that forced a pained laugh out of him before letting go, and he relinquished his grip, too.

 

“It’s good to be back, Spidey.”

 

“Oh my god,” Mr. Stark drawled, startling Peter. He’d almost forgotten the man was in the room. “Can we quit it with the mushy stuff, already? I hand-built you a mysterious drive reader, over here, and you’d rather hang off of the super spy? Consider me offended.”

 

“Sorry, Mr. Stark!” Peter’s gleeful tone probably implied the opposite. That hollow ache was still inside his chest, but there was happiness on top of it, like plastic wrap over a bowl. “So you got it working?”

 

“Sure did, bucko,” The man preened. “Get a load of this.” He gestured to the bare-bones tech lying on his desk: he hadn’t bothered giving it a casing, but Peter didn’t mind one bit. It was exciting to see the device plugged into something. Mr. Stark tapped a button and one of his holographic screens popped up. 

 

On it, instead of the information Peter had expected, there were five numbered options.

 

“Have you clicked any of them?” Peter asked, blinking at the screen, and Mr. Stark shook his head. 

 

“Not yet. I thought I’d let you do the honors.” He smirked over at Spider-Man, propping his cheek against one fist.

 

“Awesome,” Peter whispered, and he was aware of both of the adults watching him as he extended one finger to stab at the box labeled with a one.

 

All three of them startled at the clicking sound as the first segment of the drive popped open, exposing a small storage space inside. Peter gaped down at it.

 

“Okay, seriously, what?” Peter was torn between frustration and fascination. He leaned to look inside, but it was empty. He turned back to the screen and pressed the next button with the same result. “There’s nothing in here,” He said, annoyance winning out. He opened all five compartments and threw his hands up in the air, exasperated.

 

“Hang on,” Nat said from over his shoulder, leaning down. “There’s a hair.”

 

“Hair?” Peter looked closer and discovered she was right. “Theres… one in each of them. Or, I guess, four of them?” He gestured to the last one, which really  _ was _ empty. He turned to Mr. Stark hopefully. “Can we, like, run a DNA analysis on these or something? Find out who they came from?”

 

“We can try,” Mr. Stark answered with a shrug, looking almost as puzzled as Peter felt. “But if they’re not in our database, then we won’t have a match.” He stood and turned to pull on a pair of gloves. “This will take a couple of hours. You want to hang around, Spidey?”

 

“I actually have a couple of errands I need to run, if that’s okay,” He was feeling antsy. He wasn’t quite sure why. He noticed that the lights on the device were flashing. He didn’t think they’d been doing that, before.

 

“You aren’t even going to keep me company while I do this for you?” He groused, and Peter shrugged, grinning apologetically.

 

“Do you really want me here?” He cajoled. “I’ll probably only distract you.” Mr. Stark shot him a calculating glance, then nodded.

 

“You’re right. You would, you little troublemaker. Get out of here. I’ll call you when I’ve got something for you.”

 

“Thank you!” Peter dashed for the elevator, Nat following along at a more sedate pace. “So where have you been?” Peter pressed, trying to keep the topic off himself. “You were just  _ gone _ one day, and nobody would tell me where you’d gone.”

 

“Top secret, Spidey,” Natasha winked at him. “You’ll have to put up with that, I’m afraid.”

 

“Spies are lame,” Peter complained, and Natasha pinched him.

 

“I’m not the only one keeping secrets,” She pointed out, and Peter stiffened, laughing awkwardly.

 

“Ah— uh, yeah, I guess that’s true. But, um, hey, secrets are secrets and we should both respect that. Anyway! We should hang out sometime soon. Catch up. Watch a movie.” The elevator opened on the ground floor and he continued to jabber, not giving Nat time to speak as he stepped out. “Maybe something funny, I’m really in the mood for a comedy, lately. Have you ever seen Daddy’s Home? It’s probably Will Ferrell’s only good movie, but it’s like,  _ super  _ funny, oh, that’s me, I’ve got to take this see you later,” Peter laughed awkwardly, feeling his phone buzzing against his stomach. He fished it out and trotted out the front door of the building again as Natasha disappeared back into the elevator. It was Gwen calling, he saw as he lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

 

“Spider-Man.” The masculine voice sent a chill through his stomach and he stumbled to a stop on the sidewalk. He didn’t answer, but the man on the other end continued speaking anyway. “I told you not to interfere in my business, didn’t I?”

 

“You,” Peter’s voice was breathless and shaken already. The man from the docks.

 

“Me,” the man agreed. “I thought I had impressed on you that I was finished indulging your little crime-fighting delusions, when it came to my endeavors. I had such high hopes, when you stayed out of my way for the past few months. I thought that perhaps the two of us could work together. I see now that I was wrong.”

 

“How did you get that phone?” He demanded. He was gathering stares, standing on the sidewalk as he was. Peter attached the phone to his ear again and launched into the air, seeking high, private ground.

 

“You should have been more careful, Spider-Man,” The voice told him softly. “Did you think I wouldn’t know it when you activated my stolen technology? I’ve known about dear, sweet Gwen for some time now. The only thing keeping her safe was your continued compliance.” Peter felt like his heart had stopped completely. He could hear his own ragged breathing in the phone. “Please forgive me if I sound cliche. I really didn’t want to have to play a villain with you, Spider-Man, but now that you’ve betrayed my trust, I do think retaliation is in order.”

 

“Where is she?”

 

“There’s a dear friend of yours who I believe was interested in some revenge,” The man said coolly. “I’ve given her over to him.”

 

“ _ Where _ ?” Peter was yelling, now. “Where is Gwen?” He landed on top of a building and scoured the streets, hoping vainly to find something.

 

“As a gesture of goodwill, Spider-Man,” the returning answer was practically a whisper. “I’ll give you one chance to save her. He’s waiting for you at the Brooklyn Bridge. But I would hurry, if I were you. Dr. Octavius is quite irked with you and he may not wait long.” There was a beep as the call disconnected and Peter felt like his heart dropped out of his body completely. 

 

He threw himself forward, throwing out two webs at once to slingshot faster down the street.

 

He swung like a madman through the streets. He couldn’t tell how much time was passing as he slung himself desperately from building to building: it seemed frozen and much too fast all at once.

 

_ Gwen. _ He’d known that she was in danger. He’d known that this would happen, and he’d still left her alone. He’d left her unguarded. He’d trusted that she would be safe, in the company of other people. But who could protect her? The teachers at school? Her parents? The scientists at Oscorp?

 

Spider-Man should have been there. Peter should have been there.

 

He was so afraid. He was terrified of what might be happening to Gwen right at that moment. He prayed that she was still alive.

 

He nearly slammed into a building as he whipped around a corner too tight, but he swung his legs up to catch the impact, launching back off again without so much as a pause. He could hear sirens but he didn’t know what they were for, if they were going to help Gwen, or if there was something else going on nearby. It didn’t matter. The police wouldn’t save her either way. Peter had to get there on time. He had to get there faster than he’d ever traveled before.

 

Peter felt like he was being torn apart as he raced for the Brooklyn Bridge. 

 

He wa so afraid. He could see the bridge in the distance, rapidly approaching as he darted along the riverfront, finally swinging wide around the final corner and throwing himself through the air between the buildings and the looming architecture of the bridge.

 

He crashed into the metal with a sound that echoed in his teeth, but he didn’t stop to acknowledge the way it hurt, instead clambering up to the top of the bridge and sprinting along the thick, slippery cables between the arches.

 

Traffic was stopped down below, he noticed. Clouds were gathering overhead. People were fleeing the bridge and there was a writing mass of mechanical tentacles up ahead, with the form of a teenage girl struggling in the grip of one claw.

 

\---

 

Gwen Stacy was caught in the metal claws of Dr. Otto Octavius.

 

“Your dear Spider-Man will surely be here soon,” The man was telling her, waving her carelessly in the air. She wasn’t ashamed to admit that she was crying. “And then you’ll get to watch him die, my dear.”

 

“Why are you doing this?” She demanded, gasping as he squeezed her around the stomach.

 

“ _ Revenge _ ,” he hissed. “For my past humiliations. For my confinement to that damned  _ asylum _ . For his continual interference in my work.”

 

“I don’t even know Spider-Man,” she plead, and he shook his head disdainfully.

 

“You can’t fool me, child. You’ve been seen consorting with that do-gooding  _ freak _ . Now you’ll pay for your association with him by helping to end it.”

 

“No!” Gwen cried, kicking at the arm that held her, to no avail. “He’s not  _ coming _ so you might as well just let me go!” But her words were wasted, because Octavius straightened under her, and she found herself being lifted higher into the air.

 

Peter, she thought, turning in time to see Spider-Man leap up onto the support structure with them. 

 

“Spider-Man!” Octavius called to him, sounding practically gleeful. A clap of thunder rolled through the air and Gwen shuddered with terror. Not Peter. Please, not Peter.

 

“Dr. Octavius! Let the girl go!” She could hear Peter shouting back over the wind. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew that his eyes were on her.

 

“I’m so glad you’ve finally arrived,” Octavius sneered down below. “We’ve been waiting so patiently, but Miss Stacy here was beginning to think that you weren’t coming for her.”

 

“Spider-Man! Get out of here!” She cried, trying to twist out of his grasp, but the claws just dug into her skin, making her gasp.

 

“Octavius, just put her down. She’s not part of this.” His voice sounded shaky and fearful and she felt a fresh wave of tears start down her cheeks.

 

“Oh, I rather think she is,” Dr. Octopus smirked at him, giving Gwen a shake that startled a cry out of her. She could see Peter flinch even from all the way across the width of the bridge. “ _ You _ brought her into this when you decided to get in my way.”

 

“Why are villains always griping about that?” Peter tried to joke, but it fell flat even as he propped his hands on his hips in a carefree posture. His head tipped to one side. “‘Stop getting in my way!’ Yeah, well, maybe if you’d stop doing evil stuff, I’d leave you alone.” It was getting dark, Gwen thought as the wind whipped at her hair. They were so high up and it was getting dark, and Peter was preparing to fight Dr. Octavius  _ for her. _

 

“I don’t know who you think you are—”

 

“Spider-Man,” Peter interrupted, and Gwen felt sick.

 

“But I think it’s high time you learned your place. So let’s finish this, once and for all!” He launched forward, ripping a scream from Gwen’s throat as one arm swung at Peter. The hero managed to leapt over it and dart forward, going for Octavius, but then Gwen swung down in front of him and he scrambled back. This time he was unable to avoid the claw as it came swinging back towards him. He went flying and Gwen was screaming again as he hit stone and nearly bounced off the edge. Octavius rushed forward, hauling Gwen after him.

 

“Spider-Man, look out!” She cried, spotting one of his hands on the ledge, holding him up. Octavius was on top of him by the time he managed to clamber back up, and the doctor shoved him off the bridge again. 

 

Gwen had no breath to call his name as Peter’s web latched onto the tower and he swung around it in an arch, launching himself back upwards and over the top before Octavius managed to rip his anchoring away. The villain whipped around and Gwen’s head bounced, agony tearing through her at the forces applied to her body in that moment, but as they chased after Spider-Man again, she was able to try and pull at the claw on her stomach to lever herself free. Octavius didn’t seem to notice, but she wasn’t having much effect.

 

Suddenly she was pulled down again, right in front of Peter’s fist, and he aborted the motion hastily, giving Octavius time to snag him by one leg and hurl him straight up into the air. As her gaze followed him up, the first raindrop splattered on her face.

 

“No!” She managed to kick Octavius in the gut, but he just staggered back a little before holding her away from his body again.

 

“You’ll pay for that, girl,” he spat, but then Spider-Man managed to connect a spray of webbing with his face. All the arms went haywire, curling close to Octavius to protect him. Peter landed heavily on the arm next to Gwen, panting.

 

“Peter!”

 

“Hold still, Gwen,” Peter said, voice rough, and reached down to rip a finger off the claw. It looked like he had done this, before.

 

“ _ Damn you, _ Spider-Man!” Octavius bellowed behind the webbing as he struggled to pull it off, and Peter managed to snap another one. 

 

Gwen started to slip out of his grip but Peter grabbed her arm and pulled her up, arms wrapping tightly around her as he jumped away. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he was saying, panic evident in his voice, but then the two of them lurched and fell, slamming back to the stone. Twin cries of pain erupted from them as they huddled on the stone, but then Peter let go of her and he was yanked away: Otto had a grip on his ankle, she saw, and he had thrown Peter again.

 

“ _ Run, Gwen _ !” She heard over the sound of the wind as the rain started to come down heavily. It was hard to see Peter, but she could his shape dimly swinging back up towards the doctor again, distracting him as she stumbled to her feet. “ _ Go! _ ”

 

Gwen obeyed. She couldn’t help him. She was a liability, here. If she could get away, she could call the police, she could call the Avengers, she could do  _ something _ , but she was in his way, on the bridge. Having to protect her was only getting him hurt.

 

Gwen ran for the huge cables that spanned the bridge: plenty thick enough to cross. She cast a glance over her shoulder to see Peter still battling against Octavius. Neither of them seemed to notice her, anymore. She reached the edge of the bridge and sat, twisting onto her stomach so she could lower herself down to the cable without having to drop too far.

 

Her feet hit steel and she cheered internally, spinning to start running again.

 

She slipped.

 

In the end, it wasn’t even Octavius that did it, technically. Gwen slipped on the slick, wet metal of the Brooklyn Bridge and tipped over the side, a scream ripping from her lips as she fell. Staring up at the sky, she could feel the rain on her face. She could see Peter dive after her off the bridge. She could almost hear the psychotic laughter of the insane doctor. She could see the desperation in every line of Peter’s body as a web sprang towards her.

 

Gwen hit the water.

 

\---

 

Peter found her under the surface, sinking slowly towards the bottom. His arms wrapped around her as his heart hammered with panic, as his body jerked with the need to reach her, get her out, save her, he had to  _ save her _ .

 

He swam for the surface, gasping as he broke into the air. Gwen hung limp in his arms.

 

“Gwen, Gwen, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” he hacked out. She was unconscious, he told himself. She was knocked out. “You’re okay now.” He stuck her to his chest so that he could use both of his arms in an awkward backstroke. He couldn’t swim using his legs, not without kicking her, and the storm was lifting waves up in the river that frequently crashed over their heads and threatened to push them back under.

 

It took fifteen of the hardest minutes of Peter’s life to make it to the shore. As he dragged himself and Gwen up onto the rocky shore, he was sobbing helplessly, telling himself over and over again that it wasn’t too late.

 

“Gwen, Gwen,” He gasped, ripping off his mask as he laid her down on the pebbles. She was soaked to the bone, lying still, not so much as sucking in a breath. “Oh, god, oh god, I can— I can do this, I can do something, it’s not too late,” Why didn’t he know CPR? Why hadn’t anyone ever taught him CPR? He placed his hands on her chest, the way he’d seen in the movies, and pushed down once, but he felt her chest crunch under his hands and he yanked away with an aborted scream.

 

Her ribs were broken, he realized. His shaking hands went to her neck, and he tried to find a pulse, but there wasn’t anything. Her body was chilled from the water and she wasn’t breathing and he couldn’t find a pulse.

 

His hand jammed three times against his comm, trying to send the emergency signal, but there was no sound from the thing. It must not be waterproof, Peter thought with horror. 

 

His head whipped up, towards the road.

 

“Help!” He cried, hands fluttering helplessly around Gwen as he told himself again that she wasn’t dead. “ _ Someone help me!” _

 

There was no response from up above. Peter turned back to his girlfriend, trembling fingers touching her face before jerking away again. “Gwen,” he was struggling to breathe through the tears he couldn’t stop. “Gwen, oh my god. This— I’m so sorry—  _ Gwen  _ I’m so, so sorry, this is— I can’t— how do I— oh  _ god _ ,”

 

He ran a hand over her wet hair, pushing it out of her face and tucking it behind her ear. He looked over his shoulder at the bridge. Dr. Octavius was gone.

 

He turned back to Gwen and knelt over her body, feeling more helpless than he’d ever been in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus begins the darkest arch of the story: the entirety of the month of April.
> 
> Let's be honest: nobody REALLY expected Gwen to make it all the way to the end of this story, did they?
> 
> So here's the thing... the WHOLE IDEA behind this story is "take everything away from Peter and see what he does with what he has left". So... that's it. He doesn't have anything anymore.
> 
> Now let's see what he does with it.


	10. The Neverending Month (Part 2)

**April**

 

Peter knelt next to Gwen in the pouring rain, ignoring the world as it got darker. No one seemed to notice the two of them, down here, away from the road, so he didn’t bother to put his mask back on just yet. With shaking hands, he smoothed back her hair, taking in her face. He wanted it to be a relief that the expression there wasn’t afraid or pained, but that blank slackness made him feel sick.

 

“I’m so sorry,” He whispered, at a loss. What was he supposed to do, now? He couldn’t just stay here next to her forever, but he couldn’t leave her. “Gwendy,” He was crying, he knew, but he didn’t pay attention to it. “Gwen, I’m so sorry.” He knew that he should have done something to protect her. He just hadn’t realized the real threat to her.

 

Dr. Otto Octavius. He felt a surge of cold in his veins as he thought of the scientist. If he hadn’t gone after Gwen— if he hadn’t kidnapped her— if he hadn’t brought her to this bridge—

 

“Gwen,” Peter leaned close to her, tentatively touching his forehead to hers. The skin was cold and wet and it didn’t feel _real_. “I’m going to make it right, Gwen. I can’t… I can’t help you, now,” His breath hitched and he realized that the voice modulator was probably busted, too. He fumbled inside his belt for his phone and tapped at the screen to no avail.

 

Another busted phone, he found himself thinking dully. It didn’t matter, he supposed. It wasn’t like he had anyone to call, anyway.

 

Peter crushed the device in his hand, heart tightening as he threw it into the river, shaking from head to toe. It was cold, he thought, then immediately felt a wave of self-loathing. What did it matter that it was cold? Gwen was dead. He shouldn’t _care_ that it was cold.

 

Peter picked up his mask and looked it in the eyes. His stomach was twisting and it felt like the rest of his body was being hollowed out by a melon baller. “This is your fault,” He told it, hands clenching in the fabric. “If not for you, she’d be alive.” He swallowed and staggered to his feet, turning to face the river. “If you didn’t exist, I’d still have my family.” He blinked rapidly as his eyes burned and he balled up the mask, shoulders shaking. “I should just…” He stared out over the choppy water, feeling the heavy rain beating against his head and back. He was sore from the fight, and he hated himself for acknowledging that, too. It shouldn’t _matter._

 

“But,” He reluctantly opened his fists, looking at the mask again. “You’re all I have left.” His eyes drifted over to the bridge, partially obscured by the heavy rain. “Octavius,” he said aloud, voice trembling. “This is _his_ fault.” He swallowed, then jerked the mask on over his head, hastily straightening it so that he could see correctly.

 

He turned back to Gwen, another rush of nausea hitting as he looked at her body draped over the pebbles. He could swear, looking at her, that he could see her chest rising and falling, that her head would move, that her fingers would twitch. His head spun. “Hey, Gwendy,” he whispered. “I’m gonna have to move you, okay?” He knelt down and his fingers dug into the rocks to get under her knees and her neck. “We’re— we’re gonna get you—” His voice choked off and he didn’t finish the thought, instead just carefully lifting her into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder and he couldn’t contain a ragged sob.

 

Silently, he turned and trudged up the incline towards the road. There were police on the bridge, Peter could see, no doubt drawn there by his confrontation with Octavius only twenty minutes before. Some of those flashing lights looked like they might belong to ambulances. His eyes dropped to Gwen’s face as he dragged his feet along the pavement, passing between stopped cars as he made his way towards the authorities.

 

No one seemed to notice him at first, as he threaded his way through the stalled Friday night traffic on the bridge, but soon he could hear conversations falling silent and he could feel eyes burning into his skin. He heard footsteps coming towards him at a run and forced himself to look up as two paramedics arrived with a gurney.

 

“Spider-Man,” One said, voice tense. “We’ll take her.” Peter hesitated anyway, looking down at Gwen’s face as he tried to stifle the tremors running through his body.

 

“Her name is Gwen Stacy,” He said, voice almost too quiet to be heard over the rain. He blinked tears out of his eyes, letting them further stain his mask. It wasn’t as if it would make a difference anyway: it was already soaked. “She fell off the bridge.”

 

“Give her to us, Spider-Man,” the second paramedic said soothingly, and Peter held Gwen tighter for a moment before finally relenting, lowering her carefully to the surface. As he gingerly slid his arms out from under her, he heard a call that filled him with dread.

 

“Gwen?”

 

Peter looked up to see Captain Stacy break into a run from where he’d been interviewing a witness a few car lengths away. Peter skittered out of the way as the policeman skidded to a halt next to the gurney, his shaking hands reaching towards his daughter. “Gwen— oh, god, no,”

 

Peter didn’t have the guts to listen to the rest. He leapt into the air, then slung a web, launching himself down the length of the bridge as his stomach roiled with mingling grief and guilt.

 

If not for him, Gwen would be alive, he thought vitriolically. If not for him, Octavius wouldn’t have known to go after her to get to him. How _did_ Octavius know? The man from the docks— obviously. But how did _he_ know? Peter had been so careful. He was always careful.

 

It didn’t matter, now. Gwen was the last person he’d had to protect. There was no one to look after anymore, no one’s identities to keep safe. No one waiting for him at home every night, no one to wonder where he was at odd hours or if he was safe. He’d lost all of that and there was nothing he could do to get it back, but there was still something he could _do_. He could get justice.

 

Peter swung through the city in the direction Octavius had disappeared, desperation and a slowly growing fury driving his muscles to pull fast and hard. He pushed away the thoughts that threatened to drag him back to the ground, allowing himself to focus only on the villain. Peter was going to find him no matter what it took. He would scour every inch of this city. He would leave no stone unturned. Peter wouldn’t rest until he managed to bring Otto Octavius to justice.

 

He could see the damage Octavius had done to buildings as he’d pulled himself through the street, those metal arms shattering glass, puncturing steel, cracking bricks. As he moved away from the bridge, east into Brooklyn, traffic returned to normal. Despite the fact that a supervillain had passed by overhead not twenty minutes ago, New York churned on down below him, the gears grinding in a way that made his head ache and his heart burn.

 

Spider-Man was frantic in his movements, desperate to catch up to Doc Ock before he managed to disappear again, but having to track him made it more difficult. It was fine, sure, to spot a broken window, but when the villain crawled higher, when he dropped to the street, when he leapt farther than Peter expected, it slowed the hero down. He had to pick up the signs of his passage again and he knew that he was losing time. He had to make it up by going as fast as he could.

 

Peter raced up through Woodside, past Astoria, and nearly lost the trail at the Kennedy Bridge, but found a single marred streetlight just when he was about to scream with frustration. The doctor apparently tried to lose him again by ditching the road on the other side of the East River, but Peter could see how much deeper these punctures were. He had pushed off of the road, here, the additional pressure needed to launch him away digging further into the asphalt. Peter wasn’t fooled. He took scant seconds to examine the marks before straightening again.

 

He threw himself, as the doctor must have, to the west, and found a torn up patch of lawn where the man’s metal arms must have impacted. Across the Ward Island Bridge, then, surely. But as Peter continued moving, he found himself becoming frustrated, especially as the trail turned south. Were they going back to where they’d started? Peter’s teeth gritted under his mask and he swung faster, with renewed fervor. They were just making a big _circle_ , Peter thought furiously as he left Harlem behind and reentered Manhattan.

 

Across Central Park, Peter trailed the murderer, violence buzzing in his veins and spurring him on. He abandoned his webs, for the time being, since it was more difficult to swing from the shorter trees than it was from buildings. He found that he didn’t have the concentration for it, so he let himself drop out of the air. Hitting the ground in a roll, Peter ran across the lawns of the park, pushing himself faster than he knew he could go. He wasn’t counting, but it only took him seconds before he was out of the park again, throwing up his webs to the buildings of the West Side. His body hummed as he passed the Lincoln Center, heading south into a neighborhood he’d tried to avoid as much as possible, in the past. It didn’t matter, now: he didn’t _care_ whose territory he was in.

 

Peter was so busy scanning for claw marks that he missed the silhouetted shape against the dark, rainy skyline until he almost swung right by him.

 

_Daredevil._

 

Peter hit the brakes fast, arching around in a circle and flipping up into the air, landing on the far end of the roof in a crouch. He was shaking, he realized, panting for breath and exhausted. He’d been following Octavius at top speed for some time; he wasn’t sure how long. The passage of time was nearly beyond him, at the moment.

 

Daredevil was staring at him, some kind of staff clutched in his fists as he stared across the empty space. His head was tilted slightly to the side, and his stance was restful, but ready. He seemed to be waiting for Peter to speak, but the teen could hardly catch his breath. Eventually the man cleared his throat.

 

“You must be Spider-Man,” he said, and Peter was honestly a little surprised. He hadn’t been expecting pleasantries from the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

 

“Yeah—” Peter’s breath was still wheezing in and out of him. “And you’re Daredevil.”

 

Peter could see the man stiffening, head tilting forward towards the ground. Peter rested the fingers of one hand against the ground, steadying himself as he shifted uncertainly. It was difficult to tell, thanks to the mask, but he struck Peter as surprised. He was keenly aware of the fact that his voice modulator was out.

 

“That’s right,” the man answered after a moment, turning back to Peter again. His voice was even, but cautious. “Tell me, Spider-Man. What brings you to Hell’s Kitchen? You’ve been on the streets for, what, a year now? I’ve never seen you here before.”

 

“I’m after Otto Octavius,” Peter said, voice hardening as he straightened. His legs were shaky. “He would have gone by here in the last ten or fifteen minutes.”

 

“He came through this way,” Daredevil agreed, fingers curling tighter around his staff as Peter sucked in a breath. “Mechanical arms, right? He was laughing to himself.” Peter’s hands clenched into fists and Daredevil’s shoulders braced reactively.

 

“He was laughing?” Peter felt like he was going to choke on the grief and the rage. “He just killed an innocent girl, and he’s _laughing_?” He didn’t bother to try and not sound hysterical, despite the fact that he probably should. This was far from how he’d pictured his ideal introduction to the mythical vigilante of Midtown Manhattan, but he decided that it didn’t matter. That was the farthest thing from important, right now. “He went that way, right?” He gestured, readying to leap back into the air, but the man held up one hand in a pacifying gesture.

 

“What, exactly, is the plan, here, Spider-Man?”

 

“What do you mean?” Peter asked sharply, extended arm lowering slightly. “I’m going to track him down and defeat him.”

 

“You’re exhausted,” The Devil announced bluntly, hand going back to his staff, and Peter flinched. Was he that transparent? “You’ve been chasing him, right? Well he isn’t tired at all.”

 

“How do you know?” Peter demanded, arms crossing almost petulantly over his chest.

 

“He was using those mechanical arms of his to move around,” The other man replied, voice hard. “He wasn’t out of breath. He wasn’t moving slowly. He hasn’t exerted himself at all. _You have_ , Spider-Man. Normally I would let you do whatever it is you want to do, but,” He paused, frowning deeply. Peter suspected that there was something that he wasn’t saying. “If you go after him now, you’ll lose.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Peter’s jaw clenched with fury and he was strongly tempted to start throwing punches, but he restrained himself. “I’m stronger than you think I am.”

 

“I don’t doubt that,” Daredevil answered smoothly. “You said he killed someone. So you’ve after him for revenge, right?”

 

“Justice,” Peter answered as his gut twisted uncomfortably at Daredevil’s smirk.

 

“If you want justice, you’ll have him arrested and tried in a court of law.” The man’s head tilted to the side. “Is that what you’re planning? Or are you going to take the law into your own hands and deliver a punishment as you see fit?”

 

Peter stared at him silently, heart pounding in his ears. What could he say? He _had_ to fight Octavius, if he wanted him to get arrested, right?

 

But _did_ he want to deliver the punishment himself? He was afraid that the answer was yes.

 

“Either way,” Daredevil continued when Peter didn’t answer. “Neither justice nor revenge will be had if he beats you. He’ll kill you, I’m sure, and he’ll get away, and then there will be no one to take him in. No one to force him to face what he’s done. Who else, Spider-Man, is going to take down Otto Octavius, if not you? The Avengers certainly aren’t going to take notice of the likes of him. The Punisher? Above his paygrade, I’m sure. Doctor Strange? Not his ballfield.”

 

Peter shifted from one foot to another, noticing how badly his body hurt. He’d taken a lot of abuse, back on the bridge, and then pushed himself in this wild goose chase around the city. Maybe Daredevil had a point. “You?” He offered weakly anyway.

 

The man shook his head, that smirk still lingering. “To be honest with you, Spider-Man, he’s not the kind of villain that I deal with. I don’t think my… skill set is really suited to dealing with someone like him. ”

 

“Okay,” Peter’s shoulders rose defensively as another flash of irritation rolled through him. “Okay, smart guy. So your plan is to just let him get away? This guy has a bad habit of disappearing for _months_ at a time. I am _not_ letting that happen again.”

 

Daredevil’s face sobered. “Get some medical attention. Go to sleep, if you can. Then, in the morning, find him. Lure him out. Do what you have to do.”

 

Peter swallowed. He didn’t know how to lure Octavius out of hiding. He had no idea where to begin. But Daredevil was right, he had to admit, even as his fists still shook with hatred for the scientist. He wouldn’t win, tonight. Octavius was probably laying a trap for him, up head, he realized. The man had lead him around the city for what must have been at least an hour, exhausting him, all the while resting himself. Daredevil had said he was laughing. Had it really been about Gwen, or had he been thinking about something more insidious.

 

His head bowed and he nodded briskly. “You’re right,” he gritted out, hating it. Gwen was _dead_ , an inner voice screeched. He needed to _find_ Doc Ock and _take him down!_

 

Not yet, he told himself silently. Not yet, but soon.

 

“Good.” A slight, stilted pause. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

 

Peter forced his head up again and he glanced around, figuring out where he was. When he managed to pinpoint his location, he barked out a bitter laugh. He was maybe ten blocks from Avengers Tower. He would probably be able to see the rooftop he was currently standing on from the top of the tower. “Yeah. I’ll just swing by the Avengers for a bit.” He shot a cautious glance at the other vigilante. “Thanks for the advice, I guess.”

 

“Sure,” The man was wearing a wolfish smile that sent a shiver down Peter’s spine. “Any time. Nice to meet you, Spider-Man, but you’d better get going before you pass out on a roof somewhere.”

 

It wouldn’t be the first time, Peter was tempted to joke, but he quashed the impulse. He didn’t feel much like kidding around. He was still so angry.

 

“Guess so. See you around, man,” Peter didn’t wait any longer, hopping down off the roof and swinging southeast, back towards Avengers tower. It burned him up, leaving behind Octavius’s trail, but if he wanted to avenge Gwen, he didn’t have a choice.

 

Tomorrow he would find that scumbag.

 

He reached up mid swing to beep the Avengers, let them know that he was coming, but remembered halfway to his ear that the comm was busted. He groaned, swishing down to street level and jogging in through the front doors.

 

He attracted stares quickly: Spider-Man arriving dripping wet in the middle of the night, suit damaged from a clearly recent fight, shoulders squared and head low as he stalked into the elevator. The doors didn’t close.

 

Peter huffed, glancing out the door. No one was close enough to hear him if he spoke quietly. “Hey, JARVIS. It’s me, Spider-Man.”

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” The AI’s voice sounded stiff. “But you do not pass identity requirements.” Peter leaned heavily against the wall, running a hand over the front of his mask.

 

“Yeah, I know. I broke my comm. And my voice modulator. So that’s probably not helping my case. Shoot. Um. Bucky, can you ask Bucky to come down? Tell him I’m here to see him? He’s heard my voice before, he can authenticate, right?” He could feel the fight draining out of him in the face of this bureaucratic roadblock. His chest hurt and he was trying _so hard_ not to think about it. It was much easier to focus on his rage, on pushing himself, physically.

 

“I’ll inform Mr. Barnes,” JARVIS answered, managing to sound somewhat disdainful. It kind of hurt, being on the receiving end of the AI’s scorn, but it was a necessary evil, he supposed. He knew why it had to be this way, at least. There were a few moments of silence as Peter waited in the open elevator, leaning heavily on the wall, before he got a response. “Mr. Barnes is on his way down.” To his surprise, the elevator doors slid shut. “Please remain in your current location.”

 

“Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice,” Peter griped. He let his head droop back against the fancy panelling inside the elevator, waiting for Bucky. “I don’t suppose it matters much to you if I promise that I’m not the Chameleon?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“Didn’t think so,” Peter sighed, head lolling to the side as he waited for the door to open again. The elevator slid upwards, surprising Peter again, and he forced himself to straighten up, although his hands hung limply at his sides. He waited, slightly impatient, until the doors finally slid open with a chime, revealing Bucky on the other side, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

 

“Hi, Bucky,” Peter tried to sound cheerful but his voice fell flat and he immediately gave it up. He grimaced, reaching under his mask to pull out the comm, noticing Bucky’s instinctive tensing. “I broke it,” He admitted, holding it out in a flat palm. “So I couldn’t beep in.”

 

“Your voice,” Bucky didn’t reach out to take the device. His shoulders were stiff.

 

“I broke the voice modulator, too. It’s been…” His head lowered a little as he stared down at his own open hand. “A rough night.”

 

“No kidding.” Bucky was eyeing him consideringly. “Tell me something to prove it’s you.”

 

“Last week, during breakfast,” Peter said, voice slow as he recalled the memory. “Clint had smuggled raisins into the air vent and was flicking them at people. There was almost a food fight before Nat finally figured out it was him.”

 

“Something not on the cameras,” Bucky insisted with a frown.

 

“I had a mental breakdown in Mr. Stark’s car,” Peter’s anger rose again, sharply. “A couple months ago. When I broke my wrists. It was the first time you heard my voice without a modulator and I’m talking to you without one now, too. You’re the only person who knows what I really sound like, so can we just cut the crap? It’s me. I’m _sorry_ I broke the thing, but I need you to _help me_ . I can’t let everybody else hear me like this,” he waved his other hand towards his throat, agitation apparent. “Can you just ask Mr. Stark to fix my comm and my voice modulator, please? I’ve been chasing Doc Ock all over the city all night and I’m freaking _tired_ and I don’t want to just stand here and get interrogated by you. So just… let me in or let me go. I don’t care which.”

 

Bucky was staring at him, eyebrows lifted at his outburst before he stepped into the elevator. “JARVIS, take us to Stark, would you? And add this voice to Spider-Man’s profile.”

 

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS agreed, audibly relieved. “Welcome back to the tower, Mr. Spider-Man.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter grumbled, fist closing around the comm as his arms fell to his sides again.

 

“So what happened to you, kid?” Bucky prompted, nudging him with his metal arm. “You said Doc Ock? I thought you caught that guy.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter grumbled, staring at the ground. “I did, too.”

 

“You feeling alright?” The assassin pressed, suspicious. “You don’t sound like yourself. Voice modulator aside.”

 

“Like I said,” Peter gritted out. “Rough night. I don’t really want to talk about it.” A moment of silence. Although Peter didn’t look, he could tell that Bucky was looking at him. He waited silently until the man finally looked away with a shrug.

 

“Okay.” The elevator opened on Mr. Stark’s lab and Peter’s chin tucked down against his chest as Bucky led the way out.

 

“Hey, Spidey,” He heard Mr. Stark call. “I didn’t hear you signal.”

 

“He broke his comm,” Bucky announced dryly, and Peter forced himself to look up, finding Mr. Stark’s exasperated expression.

 

“You broke it?” He asked, eyes on Peter. “How’d you manage that?” Peter didn’t answer, instead rolling up his mask to his nose. Mr. Stark’s expression shifted to surprise, then to a frown. “What, so you’re not talking?” He watched as Peter carefully pulled the device out of the mask, breaking the threads that held it there before crossing the room to set it, and the comm on the table in front of him. “You broke that, too, huh? Sure, I can take a look.” He was already looking over the comm, one finger tracing a crack in the casing that Peter hadn’t noticed. Then his gaze jumped up to Peter’s face unexpectedly, making the teen flinch.

 

“You look like hell, kid,” His voice was a little kinder than Peter had expected, a little more reassuring, and it took him by surprise. “Why don’t you go take a load off while I fix these up for you?” Peter’s mouth twitched down and he was suddenly terrified that he might start crying, so he yanked his mask down, nodding his head jerkily before turning and stalking into the elevator. Bucky followed silently, and Peter waited for the doors to shut before he spoke. His voice was shaking.

 

“I need to take a shower. I’m freezing. Can you…”

 

“Yeah, kid. Same drill as last time. Just give me the clothes and I’ll bring you something else to wear.”

 

“I hate when you guys call me that,” Peter’s tone was testy again, but Bucky didn’t call him out on it. “I’m not a kid.”

 

“We know.” Bucky’s hand was on his shoulder and Peter sucked in a sharp breath, begging himself not to lose it in front of Bucky again. “The rest of us are just getting old, I guess.” He was giving Peter an opening to crack a joke, Peter knew, clumsily trying to cheer him up, but Peter shook his head, and the dead air flattened over them until Bucky addressed JARVIS. “Guest floor.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Spidey,” Bucky’s gruff voice grated against Peter’s nerves in a way that almost surprised him. “Do you… what’s going on?”

 

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Peter said stiffly, his own tone maybe a little too harsh. He could see Bucky frowning at him, but he didn’t acknowledge it. “I just need to… to rest for a little while okay?” His eyes dropped to the ground as the elevator opened and he bustled out, making a sharp turn into the room he’d used before.

 

He didn’t bother looking for cameras. Not only did he not have the patience for it, at the moment, but it almost felt like it didn’t matter, anymore. Who did he have to protect? His identity didn’t matter much, at this point. There was no one left to target. He almost felt like leaving it up to fate. If someone found out, they found out.

 

He peeled himself out of his clothes with some difficulty, the spandex clinging to his skin, sticking to the edges of the cuts from his fight, plopping wetly onto the floor as he piled it up. He didn’t spare himself a glance in the mirror, instead just silently passing the clothes out to Bucky and climbing in the shower.

 

It was harder to enjoy, this time. His fingers were pruny, Peter noticed, long before he’d been in the shower long enough to cause it. The water on his head reminded him of the waves of the river crashing over him, threatening to drown both him and Gwen as he struggled to get them to shore. The sound of water running over his ears was like the thunder that rolled as Gwen fell from the bridge.

 

He looked towards his belongings that he’d stacked on the counter. His web shooters, the tracker Mr. Stark had given him, his belt, loaded with web cartridges. Those would be harder to come by, he realized. Gwen had helped him with them, the last few months. Now he had no way to make more.

 

Peter let the sound of the shower drown out the sound of his grief. He heard the door open, once, but his spidey sense stayed silent, and a moment later the door shut again. A peek around the corner told him that Bucky had deposited a pile of dry clothes for him. He still felt guilty to be glad for them.

 

He abandoned the shower, barely remembering to shut off the water as he scrubbed himself with a towel, yanking on the clothes with fingers that nearly ripped each article as they drew over his still-damp skin. He didn’t have the patience to wait, he thought, tugging the hood up over his head before strapping the web-shooters back on. At least he still had those.

 

He looked at the tracker, lying innocuously on the counter. It itched at his brain, carrying it, but it wasn’t as if Mr. Stark would be able to track him back to his apartment, anymore. He wouldn’t be able to find Gwen. He would never see anything Peter cared about him seeing. It didn’t matter, he guessed. He tucked it inside his belt, trying to talk himself out of the gnawing grief that was trying to claw its way out of his chest and up his throat.

 

Peter opened the bathroom door, head ducking low to hide behind the hood. He couldn’t hear anyone nearby, so he went to the bedroom door and flipped the lock, turning to the bed.

 

It was much bigger than the twin he’d been sharing with Gwen for the past several months. It had to be at least a queen, but he really wasn’t an expert. He eyed the mattress as he sucked in a shaking breath, then crossed slowly to it and slid underneath the blankets, carefully keeping his face away from JARVIS’s cameras as best as he could.

 

“JARVIS,” Peter said, arms wrapping around one of the many extraneous pillows on the bed. It was too squishy. “Will you wake me up when Mr. Stark finishes fixing my stuff?”

 

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS answered, and if he sounded sympathetic, it was probably just a figment of Peter’s imagination. The teen tugged the blanket up over his head, just to be safe, already planning.

 

He would try and get some rest, now: his aching body could really use it, he knew, even if he didn’t want to sleep. Even if he suspected that he _couldn’t_ sleep. Then, as soon as his comm and voice modulator were repaired, he would set out again.

 

Peter was going to find Dr. Octopus. This time, nothing was going to stop him from repaying the man for everything he’d taken from Peter.

 

\---

 

Natasha jogged past the Freedom of the Human Spirit statue for the third time in fifteen minutes, eyes scanning the faces that clustered around it. No one paid her any mind: there was little interest in the jogging woman with the high blonde ponytail as visitors admired the sights or met up with friends. After all, it was almost seven o’clock on a Saturday evening: people had other things to think about.

 

Gwen Stacy was late, she noticed. Although she hadn’t met the girl, up to this point, she’d seen enough pictures of her and Parker together that she was certain she’d recognize her with no trouble. There was no flash of blonde hair, no trademark headband, no uncertain glances around as a teenager waited for an assassin.

 

She wondered, as she disappeared to make another circuit around the park, if Gwen had decided not to show. It wouldn’t be entirely surprising if she was connected with Spidey: the kid might have warned her about Natasha gathering details as to his identity. It was an inconvenience, to be sure, especially since she had no intentions to do so. Not right now, anyway. Right now she needed to track down Peter Parker and the fact that he hadn’t turned up dead somewhere yet strongly implied that he had help.

 

Who else to go to but his girlfriend? A glance through Stacy’s social media had confirmed that she was well-liked, hints of a sharp wit over a wealth of kindness in the posted interactions between herself and many friends. It hadn’t escaped her notice that she tutored Flash Thompson— her boyfriend’s bully. So either she was callous to Parker’s problems, which seemed unlikely, or she was willing to put aside her own feelings to help someone even if it bothered her.

 

But those were only guesses, Natasha thought as she came back around and spotted a blonde head of hair approaching the statue. Finally.

 

The teenage girl lingered uncomfortably near the statue, looking around for Natasha, who rounded the statue one more time in order to give herself time to inspect her from a distance. No visible weapons, she decided, just a cell phone clutched in one hand,

 

Natasha slowed to a walk, putting on a neutral expression as she casually approached the girl. Gwen caught sight of her almost immediately, eyes widening as he grip tightened on her belongings, pulling them close to her chest. A sign of stress, Natasha noticed.

 

“Miss Stacy,” Natasha greeted her, voice deliberately calm and friendly. “Thank you for meeting me.”

 

“Um, no problem,” Gwen still sounded nervous, which was to be expected. “I just can’t believe that the _Black Widow_ texted me. Am I…” She hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to another. “I’m not in any trouble, am I?”

 

“No, nothing like that,” Nat assured her, head jerking to one side. “Come sit down, we’ll talk. Don’t look so nervous,” She led the way to a bench, settling down comfortably, ankles crossed in front of her. “I just had a few questions for you regarding Peter Parker.”

 

Gwen visibly flinched, and Natasha felt a small thrill of victory. “Peter,” she said, trailing after Natasha as a curtain of sadness draped itself over her, stifling the nerves from before. “You’re looking for Peter?”

 

“That’s right,” Natasha confirmed, letting the girl settle down next to her before continuing. “Have you heard from him at all since January?” Gwen’s eyes dropped and she hesitated before shaking her head stiffly.

 

 _Yes_.

 

“I haven’t,” Gwen muttered. “The last time I heard from him was on New Year’s Eve. He was with his aunt, going over to my friend MJ’s house to celebrate.”

 

“What do you know about what happened that night?” Natasha prompted her, watching her carefully out of the corner of her eye.

 

“Not very much,” The girl admitted, sounding pained. “I know that he and his aunt were in a car crash. Aunt May— she passed away in the hospital and Peter went missing.”

 

“Was this before or after midnight?”

 

“I don’t know,” Gwen said again. “My dad wouldn’t tell me the details, and it’s not like anyone is just going to give out the details of a fatal car crash to a teenager,” Her hands clenched in her lap.

 

“Of course,” Nat agreed ruefully. “That must have been very hard on you.” Gwen hesitated again, and Natasha prepared for another lie, but instead her head dipped and her voice quivered.

 

“I miss him.”

 

Natasha was no good with comfort, so she didn’t try, but she didn’t interrupt as the girl sniffled and wiped at her tears. She waited in silence, head tipped back towards the cloudy sky as Gwen composed herself as best she could. When Nat glanced over, she could see her shoulders shaking even as her head lifted.

 

“Do you know anything?” Gwen asked, voice sounding rough. “Have you found out anything at all?” Natasha frowned slightly.

 

“Not very much, yet,” she didn’t let the heartbroken expression on the girl’s face tug too sharply at her heartstrings. “But I’ve only just started looking. Don’t worry, Gwen.” She afforded the teen a smile. “I’m going to figure out what happened to him.” She paused, lips pursing. “Do you know of any other friends he might have turned to? Anywhere he liked to go? Favorite spots in the city? Any _outside_ the city?”

 

Gwen shook her head slowly, brow furrowed. “Peter… didn’t have a lot of friends. It was mostly just the two of us. He liked it that way. He was really shy.” Her breath hitched and she turned her face away for a moment before looking back, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “He _is_ really shy, I mean. We spent all our free time together, but I don’t really know what he was doing while I was at my internship. We never really talked about it.”

 

Teenage love, Natasha thought dryly. Hormones probably prevented much discussion from taking place at all.

 

“He took pictures of Spider-Man, right?” Natasha’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you know anything about that?”

 

Gwen shook her head again after a brief hesitation.

 

 _Yes._ Gwen was lying again. Her suspicions that Gwen, Peter, and Spider-Man were all connected only strengthened.

 

“Gwen,” Natasha hated to ask, knowing that if it got back to the wall-crawler, he would inevitably feel betrayed, but in order to find Parker she had to follow the few leads she had. “What do you know about Spider-Man?” Gwen’s eyes widened and her shoulders stiffened as she shot Natasha a look. Interesting.

 

“What does Spider-Man have to do with this?” She asked warily. “You think Spider-Man took Peter?” Natasha didn’t answer. She just stared at Gwen, face neutral as she waited for the girl to continue, and after a few moments, the teenager cracked. “I mean, not that much. I don’t think Spider-Man would have done that, though. He seems so nice.”

 

“Seems,” Natasha repeated aloud, the word a challenge. “Not seemed?”

 

“Well,” Gwen was fidgeting, not meeting Natasha’s eyes. “I mean, I still see press about him, and stuff. If you ask most people, he’s great. Not the Bugle, obviously, but everybody else seems to like Spider-Man, now.”

 

Another lie, Natasha noticed, but it was bugging her a little. Gwen Stacy was clearly lying: checking off every box on the _signs of lying_ checklist. But maybe that was the problem. A good liar would be trying to hide those things. And teenagers, she knew, were practiced liars. While Natasha had gathered significant evidence of Gwen’s good character, it struck her as unlikely that the girl was completely honest. Between her missing boyfriend, her vague connection to Spider-Man, and her reportedly genius intellect, there was certainly more going on there than met the eye.

 

So what was it? Did Gwen _want_ Natasha to know that she was lying? Maybe she knew Spider-Man’s identity, Natasha thought with a thrill of excitement that she tried immediately to quash, but she didn’t want to betray him. Maybe she didn’t want to talk about it in public. Maybe—

 

Her thoughts were interrupted as Gwen spoke again. “Why are you asking me about Spider-Man? I thought this was supposed to be about Peter.”

 

“Is Spider-Man a friend from school, Gwen?” Natasha looked at her fully, twisting on the bench to face her. The intimidation did its job: Gwen was staring down at her lap, fists clenched just above her knees, shoulders high and stiff.

 

“I-I—” She couldn’t seem to get her words together. The teenager was visibly rattled, and it was all the answer that Natasha needed.

 

“You know who he is.”

 

“No, no,” Gwen was shaking her head too quickly. “I— we— _uh_ ,”

 

“You’re not in trouble, Gwen.” Natasha’s voice turned soothing. “You don’t have to tell me his name. Does Peter know? Does it have something to do with why Peter ran away?”

 

Gwen’s bright eyes were pointed back at her, now, rimmed with red and tinted with fear. “We… we were never supposed to find out,” Her voice was a little rough. “We saw him one day. He didn’t know we were there. We were…” Her face reddened and she looked away again, and Natasha filled in the dots herself even as Gwen continued.

 

“Spider-Man asked us not to tell anyone. I agreed. After all— Spider-Man had saved me before. He accepted a Christmas present from me. Spider-Man is… great. But Peter… Peter wouldn’t agree. He works for the Daily Bugle,” She shot a guilty look at Natasha. “He’s only fifteen. He was hoping… it would be his big break, you know? A full time photographer gig. And Spider-Man… he didn’t like it. He said a lot of things that… that made Peter scared that he would come after him. Once Peter’s aunt was gone, he didn’t have any reason to stay at home anymore, so he hid.”

 

“He’s hiding from Spider-Man,” Natasha repeated, trying to reconcile the idea of the Spider-Man she knew with the one Gwen was describing. It was difficult, but it didn’t seem like she was lying, now. And maybe it did fit was Nat knew of him. The kid _was_ fiercely protective of his identity. Was that why he’d been so out of sorts? He was afraid that his identity was about to be revealed?

 

“I think so,” Gwen agreed in a whisper, voice pained. “I haven’t seen Spider-Man since then, so I don’t know if he really intends to hurt Peter or not.”

 

Nat nodded, eyes turning back out towards the pedestrians. The sun was starting to go down on the other side of the park. “I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry, Gwen. Spider-Man’s a good guy. I don’t think he’d hurt your boyfriend. But if you two are really worried about it… text me if something happens.”

 

“Really?” Gwen looked a little starstruck at the idea of texting the Black Widow.

 

“If you need help,” She amended. “We won’t let another super hurt you two.” Gwen’s eyes crinkled, looking almost amused, but the expression was gone so quickly that Natasha wasn’t entirely sure that she hadn’t imagined it.

 

“Thank you,” Gwen said, radiating gratitude and relief, now. Natasha nodded, studying the girl, but was distracted when, infuriatingly, the streetlights around them flicked off. The teenager gaped. “Another power outage?” She asked, standing up and staring towards the street. The setting sun was the only source of light, and cars were already starting to honk.

 

“Thank you for meeting with me, Gwen.” Natasha stood. She should get back to the tower. Tony would be trying to track the source of the problem, and she wanted to be there if he figured anything out. “Remember, you’re safe. And if you see Peter, give him my number, would you?” She gave the teenager her best reassuring smile before turning to walk away, tapping a finger against the comm. A glance over her shoulder revealed Gwen walking in the other direction, already ducking her head to look at her phone. Teenagers, she thought with a snort, rolling her eyes.

 

“Stark,” she asked, trusting that JARVIS would relay her words. “What’ve we got?”

 

Stark, as it turned out, had very little, and they spent the next several days trying to narrow down possible origins of the blackout. Natasha was nearly ready to give up anyway when JARVIS announced that there was a call for her on Monday afternoon.

 

“A Mr. Flash Thompson on the phone for you, Miss Romanoff,” he told her politely, and Nat frowned over at Tony’s raised eyebrow.

 

“What the hell’s he calling me for?” Natasha wondered aloud, digging her phone out of her pocket. “Transfer it to me, JARVIS.” Her phone rang once and she jammed the button to accept the call, lifting the phone to her ear. “I hope you have a good reason to be calling me, Flash,” She said, her voice so sweet that she saw Tony shudder. “I’m a very busy woman.”

 

“Uuh,” She could practically hear the teen on the other end gulp. “Yeah. I, um, I just— I thought you’d want to know— I just saw Peter Parker.”

 

Natasha was on her feet in seconds, eyes alight. “You saw him? Where? Tell me what happened.”

 

“At school,” Flash told her. “He just walked up to me in the hallway. He looked like a ghost— the worst I’ve ever seen him.” She sounded worried, she noticed. “He asked me when Gwen Stacy’s funeral was.”

 

“Wait— Gwen Stacy is dead?” Natasha demanded. “What happened?” She had already pulled her tablet over and was trying to pull up an obituary, a news story, anything. She’d just talked to the girl two days ago. Had Spider-Man really gone through with it? Had he killed Gwen?

 

“She got thrown off the Brooklyn Bridge,” Flash’s voice was rough with emotion and Nat remembered that Gwen was his tutor. She wondered if they had been close. “On Friday.”

 

Natasha’s blood ran cold.

 

“Friday?” She repeated, and locked eyes with Tony. He couldn’t hear the other end of her conversation, but he was tapping his fingers against the desk, clearly becoming agitated.

 

“Right— Friday night. People are saying it was Spider-Man, but it was during a fight with Doctor Octopus. I think it was _him_.”

 

“Shit,” Natasha hissed, holding the phone away from her lips. Gwen Stacy had died on _Friday_ . That _damn Chameleon._ How much of their conversation was based on fact? How much was a flat out lie? It was impossible to say. “Alright, Flash, tell me about Peter,” She forced herself to focus. If he was still alive, then she had to find him _immediately_ , before something bad happened to him too.

 

“Right— well he walked up and asked me when Gwen’s funeral was, and I told him that it’s tomorrow at four o’clock at Cedar Grove Cemetery. I asked him where he’s been and told him how worried everyone’s been and he didn’t answer, but he had this _look_ in his eyes— I don’t know what’s happened to him, but that kid is _not okay._ You’ve got to do something.”

 

“Did you call the police? Tell a teacher? Anything?”

 

“I didn’t have time,” Flash admitted. “After that he just thanked me and walked off again. I tried to follow him but he’s fast— I didn’t see where he went.” Natasha ran a hand over her face. The funeral, Natasha hoped wildly. Parker would be at the funeral, surely.

 

“Alright,” Natasha nodded firmly, resting her palm flat against the table in front of her, bracing herself as her thoughts flew. Parker had been remarkably evasive, thus far: she’d have to be ahead of him, this time. “Thank you, Flash. Is there anything else?”

 

“That was it. Just… please help him.”

 

“I fully intend to.” Natasha waited long enough to hear his relieved sigh into the receiver before hanging up the phone.

 

“Who was that?” Tony prompted her.

 

“Flash Thompson, one of Peter Parker’s classmates,” She told him, then grimaced. “Probably. Parker’s girlfriend died on Friday.”

 

“Shit,” Tony leaned back frowning.

 

“I met with her on Saturday,” she reminded him, and his eyes widened.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” He repeated, more emphatically, and Nat nodded her agreement.

 

“Exactly. So the Chameleon not only knew about Gwen Stacy, he had her phone, he knew when and where we were meeting, and he knows that I’m looking for Peter Parker. We need to find that kid. Thompson says he was asking about Gwen’s funeral, so hopefully he’ll be there.” She reluctantly sat back down, eyes finding a story from the Daily Bugle about the altercation between Spidey and Doc Ock on top of the Brooklyn Bridge, noting specifically the unnamed casualty.

 

“I think I’m going to need backup,” She decided aloud.

 

\---

 

Peter didn’t own a suit anymore, but he managed to turn up to the funeral  in dark colors, at least.

 

His first impulse was to watch from a distance, as he had for Aunt May, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Gwen’s death was _his fault_ . It was more important that Peter _be there_ than he be convenienced.

 

He changed out of his costume several blocks away from the cemetery, leaving his backpack and the spider-silk pouch of his family’s momentos on a roof, where they would be safe, for the time being, before descending the fire escape and emerging into the street. He still needed to find somewhere to store them more permanently, but it had been hard enough to break away from his search for Doc Ock to pilfer them from Gwen’s room in the first place. He didn’t have the time, now, to do that.

 

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he hesitated outside the cemetery grounds. The funeral started soon, he knew, but his anxiety was spiking at the thought of actually arriving. It felt as if, by going in, he was putting the last nail in her coffin himself.

 

Peter stared at the ground, shoulders high, ignoring the footsteps coming up behind him until someone spoke.

 

“Peter?”

 

The teen looked up and was surprised to find Clint at his elbow, dressed in a suit. He blinked at the man, face blank. This wasn’t the first time an Avenger had approached Peter Parker, but he was at a loss, this time. If they wanted Spider-Man, why didn’t they just beep him? Peter hadn’t received any signals from them, lately.

 

He didn’t really have the energy to deal with this, right now.

 

The silence dragged on for too long and eventually Clint’s head tipped slightly to the side. “My name’s Clint Barton.” One hand lifted to his shoulder and Clint gave it a squeeze. “There are a lot of people worried about you, kid.”

 

Peter continued staring at him, not knowing what to say. This was about Peter? About how he was missing? How did Clint even know what he looked like well enough to spot him out here?

 

“It’s okay,” Clint’s voice was softer and more reassuring than he thought he’d ever heard it. “You’re here for the funeral, right? Let’s go in.” His hand shifted down between Peter’s shoulders and he steered the baffled teen through the gates.

 

His head felt so heavy, so Peter let it droop again, walking silently next to Hawkeye into the cemetery. “What are you doing here?” He asked, voice cracking with unshed tears. “You didn’t know Gwen, did you?”

 

“No,” Clint admitted. “But we knew you’d be here.”

 

“You’ve been looking for me.” It wasn’t really a question, but Clint nodded anyway. Peter could see the group of mourners in the distance, mingling sluggishly. It felt like there was acid leaking into his chest around his heart.

 

“We can talk about that later.” Clint looked at him, and Peter could see sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Peter met his gaze for a few moments, then turned back to look at the ground again.

 

“Thanks.” It was sunny today, warm and breezy. A beautiful day to be outside. He almost wished that it were raining. It felt wrong for Gwen to be buried in such nice weather.

 

Clint didn’t try to wrestle more than that out of him, instead escorting him to the group gathered at the gravesite. Peter could tell that he was garnering some stares: Gwen’s mom noticed him immediately and clapped a hand over her mouth before rushing over and, to his surprise, pulling him into a hug.

 

Peter had had limited interaction with Gwen’s mom. Mostly they spoke at dinner or when Peter was entering or leaving Gwen’s apartment. But now, as she clung to him breaths coming raggedly, he wondered if he meant more to her than he thought he did.

 

“Mrs. Stacy,” He managed to grate out painfully. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Peter, sweetheart,” Her voice was tearful and agonized. “I’m so glad to see you. We’ve all been so worried…” She leaned back to look at him with red-rimmed eyes. He had to blink away tears of his own. “Thank you for coming, Peter. It would have meant everything to—” Her voice cut off and her head ducked, face twisting with grief, and Peter nodded shakily, sniffling as his eyes and throat burned.

 

“I just— I wish I could have— I would give _anything_ to have her here, now.”

 

“I know,” Mrs. Stacy forced a haggard smile. “Me, too. Come stand with us, Peter,” She prompted, her eyes finally shifting to Clint. “And…?”

 

“Clint Barton,” He extended his hand to shake hers. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

 

“Thank you.” She forced another smile. “How did you know Gwen?”

 

“I’m afraid I didn’t have the pleasure,” he admitted. “I’m here with Peter.” Peter shot him a glance at that, wondering exactly what it was that he wanted, but he didn’t ask, for the moment. Mrs. Stacy nodded.

 

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said softly. “Please, you’re welcome to join us.”

 

“Thank you.” Clint nodded, and his hand found Peter’s shoulder again, as if he were afraid of losing him. The three of them moved to the front of the crowd, closest to the casket, and Peter’s eyes fell on it. He acknowledged Captain Stacy’s hug and the mumbled greetings of Gwen’s brothers mechanically, unable to remove his eyes from where Gwen’s body lay, just hidden from sight.

 

The service began, but Peter wasn’t listening. He couldn’t concentrate, even with one hand on his shoulder. He felt as if he were floating away.

 

The thing about death, Peter realized, was that it defied comprehension. It was too strange to grasp, completely beyond the reason of the mind. Trying to understand death was like trying to catch light in closed hands.

 

As Peter stood at the head of the crowd of everyone who loved Gwen, next to her family, he marveled over that fact. He would never see her alive again. That was obvious: he understood it, intellectually. But he couldn’t grasp it. It didn’t make _sense._ It was too confusing to try and come to terms with the fact that Gwen would never be alive again. It just didn’t make _sense_ that he wouldn’t ever be able to pause and wonder what Gwen was doing again. It didn’t make _sense_ that she would never be out there in the world, enjoying life, ever again.

 

He couldn’t understand it. His mind shied away from the idea over and over again as he tried to force himself to realize the reality of the situation. He told himself the words, and yes, of course, she was dead. That was how it was, once you were dead. He’d been trying to convince himself of that for the last five days.

 

But death wasn’t so simple. It was too big. It was too complex. Death couldn’t be understood by someone who hadn’t experienced it, and Peter suspected that even the indecipherable nature of death went unnoticed by those who hadn’t brushed against it, yet.

 

He’d certainly never thought about it before now. But, then again, he’d very deliberately been telling himself for months _not_ to think about it.

 

Peter thought about it. What was the point, now, in keeping it in?

 

He thought he’d dealt with Aunt May’s death admirably, but as he struggled to keep from weeping aloud, he had to admit that he hadn’t dealt with it at all. He’d stuffed it all down inside where it could fester as he ignored it, and the only thing keeping it there was Peter’s reluctance to engage it. Now the cork had pulled free of the bottle and the emotions he’d been neglecting for months spilled everywhere.

 

Peter was battered by the rushing, raging thoughts that knocked around the inside of his skull, making his whole body shudder as his fingers dug into his palms. Clint’s hand on his shoulder tightened, presumably feeling his grief threatening to shake him apart on an atomic level, but it did nothing to comfort Peter.  He just stared at the casket, gasping as he threatened to dissolve into a panic attack right there at the funeral.

 

Gwen, he thought, head dropping as his shoulders shook. Aunt May. Uncle Ben. His mother and father. There wasn’t anyone left. He was alone, now. Everyone in the world who had ever loved him was gone.

 

Peter felt a weight settle heavy on his back and he didn’t try to shrug it off. He let himself stand there, guarded by a friend who didn’t recognize him, next to the family of the girl he got caught in the crossfire, in front of a group of people whose worlds were darker because Gwen was gone.

 

Clint’s arm wrapped around Peter’s shoulders and Peter cried.


	11. The Neverending Month (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK  
> BACK AGAIN

**April**

 

Peter remembered his first date with Gwen.

 

_ “Peter,” Gwen’s eyes were bright when she opened the apartment door. Her father was looking over her shoulder, giving him a critical look, but even that couldn’t dim the grin that spread over his face at the sight of her. “You look very handsome,” she told him. _

 

_ “You look amazing,” He took in the blue dress she was wearing, admired the way she’d done her hair up on top of her head. He noticed that, for the first time since they’d started talking, her nails were painted. They were a paler blue than her dress. _

 

Peter could see that icy blue even now, in his mind’s eye.

 

_ “Should we go?” Peter asked, feeling his heart racing as he tried to act like he was calm and in control of himself and not about to vibrate out of his skin with the joy and the  _ honor _ he felt, being able to take Gwen out. _

 

_ Captain Stacy was staring suspiciously at Peter over Gwen’s shoulder. “Do you two have a ride?” _

 

_ “It’s okay, dad,” Gwen jumped in. “We’re going to that Italian place three blocks down. We can walk.” The man frowned, checking the time, then seemed to relent as he realized it was still light outside. _

 

_ “Alright,” he agreed, arms crossing over his chest. “But call me if you need anything. And don’t stay out too late.” _

 

_ “Promise,” Gwen agreed, slipping out the door and looking over her shoulder at her father. Peter’s eyes followed the curve of her neck up into her hair as she called a goodbye and shut the door. Then she was turning back around and he realized he hadn’t really made room for her outside the door, so he hastily stepped back, a sheepish grin across his face. _

 

_ “Hi,” he said, going to pocket his hands before abruptly deciding not to and just kind of awkwardly sliding his hands against his legs. _

 

_ “Hi,” She said back, her cheeks pink as she flashed him a returning smile. _

 

_ “Um— let’s go,” He hesitated for a moment, wondering exactly what the protocol was, but then she stepped in with that Gwen Stacy competence he’d always admired. _

 

_ “Sounds good,” She agreed, passing him on the way down the hall to the elevator. Peter hurried to catch up, jamming the button with his thumb as he glanced at her out of the corner or his eye. _

 

_ “So how are you? How was, um, your day?” Peter asked as they stepped in. Gwen shot him a look, apparently amused. _

 

_ “Since I saw you, like, two hours ago? Pretty good. How’s yours?” _

 

_ “Great,” Peter found himself beginning to relax a little. Sure, this was a stressful situation: a first date was always going to be weird. But it was  _ Gwen _. She was happy to be here. She liked him. She liked his weird dorkiness and she wanted to be on this date and she wasn’t judging him. “I’ve been really looking forward to tonight.” _

 

_ “Me, too.” Gwen led the way out of the elevator and waved to her doorman as they headed out onto the street. _

 

_ The late afternoon sun was shining, warming the cool October air, and he was so enamored with her. _

 

_ \--- _

 

The service ended.

 

They stood in silence for a few moments as people began to move around them, talking quietly. Peter could feel Clint shifting next to him and the man opened his mouth to speak, but someone else beat him to it.

 

“Peter!” 

 

It was strange, Peter reflected dully, hearing so many people using his name, today. He’d grown used to only hearing it from Gwen: everyone else only knew him as Spider-Man. It was weird being Peter again. It felt almost false.

 

He turned towards the sound of the voice and found himself with a face full of red hair as someone pulled him into a tight hug.

 

“Oh my god, you’re alive,” MJ was gasping, arms tight around his neck. The words sent a shiver through Peter’s heart and he nodded weakly, arms wrapping around Gwen’s best friend. “Everyone thought you were dead!”

 

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled, feeling eyes on him. He was kind of making a scene just by being here. He really ought to go. Before he managed to disentangle himself from her arms, someone punched him on the shoulder: not nearly hard enough to hurt.

 

“Parker,” Peter looked up to find Flash standing nearby. There were dark circles under his eyes, but a weak grin was plastered on his face. “What the hell were you thinking, disappearing on me like that, yesterday? Where have you been?  _ How _ have you been?”

 

MJ slipped away from Peter, and he missed the comfort so desperately for a moment that he almost followed, but he forced himself to stay where he was. “I don’t know,” He couldn’t look Flash in the face. He remembered when Gwen said that Flash had been talking about him. He remembered that Flash had felt at least partially responsible for his disappearance.

 

“You don’t know?” Flash repeated with a frown and Peter was keenly aware of Clint standing right behind his shoulder. He must have glanced towards him, because Flash and MJ were looking at him, too, then, and he saw shock spread across both of their faces. Peter was grateful for the distraction from the line of questioning.

 

“Hawkeye?” MJ looked positively befuddled. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I thought I’d pay my respects,” Clint answered vaguely, but a strange look of relief came over Flash’s face. “I’m really sorry to interrupt, but Peter and I need to get going.” Peter shot a look at Clint, suddenly suspicious. His spidey sense was silent, but he remembered his last encounter with the Chameleon very clearly.

 

“At least give me your phone number,” MJ demanded, and Peter shot her a grimace.

 

“I don’t actually… have a phone anymore.” It was at the bottom of the East River. “Sorry. Um… I’ll Skype you sometime?” He offered, feeling weird about it. He wasn’t sure that runaway teens were supposed to Skype their classmates.

 

“Okay,” MJ agreed, lips pursing slightly, looking like she wanted to say more.

 

“I’ll… see you guys around, I guess,” Peter said, looking between the two other teenagers. He wondered if he  _ would _ see them again. His initial plan had been to leave the funeral and immediately get back to looking for Doctor Octopus: there were a few buildings with suspicious activity he’d heard about that he intended to check out. And once he found the man, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen, exactly.

 

Of course, with Clint here, it was kind of throwing off his schedule.

 

“Take care of yourself, Parker,” Flash bid him, watching him with crossed arms and a pained expression.

 

“Come over and see me, soon,” MJ insisted, and Peter just nodded vaguely before turning to look at Clint.

 

“Will you come with me?” The man asked, pocketing his hands. Peter was focusing hard on his spider sense, but there was still nothing.

 

“Where?”

 

“Peter,” Captain Stacy approached from behind Clint and Peter swore the Avenger almost facepalmed. Peter wasn’t surprised that Captain Stacy was trying to corral him before he ran off again. “I’m going to put in a call to the station, and someone is going to come down and pick you up, alright? You shouldn’t be out on your own. You need to let someone help you.”

 

The man looked exhausted, Peter noticed guiltily. Weighed down by grief and pain. He looked like Peter felt.

 

“Actually,” Clint interrupted before Peter got a chance to answer. He pulled out his wallet and flashed something at Captain Stacy, who frowned. “I’m here to pick up Peter. I’ll be taking him into SHIELD custody.”

 

“SHIELD?” Captain Stacy repeated, beating Peter to the punch. The teen was too busy thinking about how his heart had probably just stopped.

 

“SHIELD?” Peter managed to squeak a moment later, and Clint’s attention turned back to him, a familiar patience on his face as he nodded.

 

“You’re not in trouble,” Clint assured him. “We just want to make sure you’re safe.”

 

“From what?” Peter demanded, but Clint’s hand was back on his shoulder. Peter felt his pulse jump and Clint shifted a little, tensing.

 

“It’s okay, Peter. We’ll talk about it in the car, okay?” Peter’s rebellion must have been shining through his eyes, because Clint wrapped that arm around his shoulders, holding him more firmly.

 

“I’ll have to report that you have him,” Captain Stacy announced, and Clint nodded slowly.

 

“Sure,” he agreed. “But go straight to the chief of police. It’s very important that Peter’s location not get around to too many people.” Clint raised his eyebrows at Captain Stacy until the man nodded reluctantly, then held his hand out to Peter.

 

“I hope to see you again, Peter,” The captain said. As Peter took his hand, they shared a commisserative stare, for a moment feeling each other’s pain as if through the contact. Captain Stacy gave a squeeze and Peter’s heart mirrored the gesture. “Take care of yourself.”

 

“You, too, sir,” Peter agreed, reluctantly letting go and letting Clint pull him away, casting one last glance towards Gwen Stacy’s casket. Then he looked away.

 

“How are you feeling, kid?” Clint prompted him after a moment, and Peter shrugged one shoulder, jostling Clint’s arm.

 

“Not great,” he admitted, eyes falling to the grass again as he tried to think of how he was going to get  _ out _ of SHIELD custody without revealing his identity. It would be much easier if he were Spider-Man.

 

Did it matter if he revealed his identity, Peter had to wonder again? What would he really lose, if he did? The Avengers wouldn’t hurt him, he was fairly sure.

 

But they would want him to get back in the system, Peter remembered. They would still want him to move in with an adult, maybe stop being Spider-Man. If they knew he was fifteen, they would turn even more protective than they already were. No, he decided, his identity needed to stay under wraps, for now. Until he turned eighteen or decided that he was done with Spider-Man.

 

Whichever came first.

 

“I know,” Clint said, and Peter found the empathy surprisingly comforting. He hadn’t expected it.

 

“So… am I being arrested?” Peter asked, sounding voice sounding weirdly flat.

 

“No—” Before Clint could continue, Peter interrupted.

 

“So I’m free to go?”

 

“Sorry, kid.” Clint shook his head, snorting as they hit the sidewalk and steering Peter to the right. “You’re not being arrested, but consider yourself… detained.”

 

“You’re not even with the police,” Peter argued, eyes scanning the street for any way to escape. There were plenty of people out and about— the petite woman with a bun and a pencil skirt,  digging in her purse; the large man in a hoodie who was texting studiously; a group of four kids with backpacks jostling each other as they walked ahead of Peter and Clint. Maybe there was something there, he thought.

 

“No, but I am with a government agency,” Clint replied. “But look, kid, really, you’re not in trouble. We’re just going help you, okay? There’s some dangerous people out there that we think—” 

 

“Shit!”

 

Peter’s eyes snapped to the hooded man at the exclamation and discovered that he had all but tripped over one of the kids, absorbed in his phone as he was. The device went flying, barely missing Clint’s face, and Peter wrenched out of his arm as the archer ducked to avoid it. He took a step to run and something hit him hard in the stomach, doubling him over.

 

Before he knew it, he was being hefted over a shoulder and carted away from Clint at high speeds.

 

“Damnit!” He heard the Avenger shouting. “Someone snatched the kid! I need backup!”

 

Snatched, Peter thought, shocked, staring down at the sprinting legs below him as he struggled to regain his breath. He’d just been snatched? 

 

“Sorry, boo, but I saw him first!” 

 

“Hey!” Peter started to leverage himself up, but the man in the hoodie who’d apparently  _ thrown  _  his phone at Clint secured his arms around Peter’s legs more firmly.

 

“It’s me, it’s me!” He exclaimed. “Calm down, I’m helping!” Peter craned his head, trying to find the face, and the man shot him a glance.

 

Red mask. Of  _ course _ it was Deadpool.

 

“You!” Peter beat one hand against his back, but he was afraid to use too much strength in public. It was still enough to make Deadpool grunt. “Let me go! How did you even  _ find _ me?”

 

“Ow, Spidey, knock it off,” Deadpool hissed as Peter hit him again.

 

“Don’t call me that!” Peter whispered harshly back, then yelped as Deadpool pinched his leg.

 

“Stop hitting me!” Deadpool insisted, whipping around a corner. “And hold still! What is your problem?”

 

“My problem is that you’re kidnapping me!”

 

“Don’t you listen? I’m  _ helping _ you! Ah, shit!” They practically skidded as Deadpool dodged into an alley, and as Deadpool beat a hasty retreat, Peter managed to catch a glimpse of Natasha’s steely, determined expression as she chased after them. She was here, too? Not great.

 

“He’s heading towards 69th Avenue,” He heard her saying into her comm, and Peter wondered exactly  _ what the heck _ was going on around here.

 

“How did you even find me?” Peter demanded again, nearly dislodging from Deadpool’s grip before the mercenary readjusted.

 

“Seriously, hold  _ still _ ! All will be explained, I  _ promise! _ ” Deadpool cried, whipping around a corner and suddenly they were sprinting across 69th, Deadpool weaving through the traffic.

 

“Hold it!” Peter saw Cap sliding across the hood of a taxi, nearly getting creamed on the other side by a minivan that blew its horn irately before speeding away.

 

“Shit,” Deadpool hissed, arms wrapping tight around Peter’s legs as he vaulted onto the sidewalk. Peter was about eighty percent sure that Deadpool was going to get them both killed as the man booked it towards Main Street. “Okay, okay,” came the mercenary’s breathless voice as tires screeched behind them. “Meet me on top of the Jamaica Towers building on 89th Avenue. You know where it is?”

 

“I’m not meeting you anywhere!”

 

“I can help you!”

 

“I don’t  _ need _ your help,” Peter began to argue, but then Deadpool’s words shut him up.

 

“I know a guy who can help you find Ock— but we’ve got to get away from the A-Team, first!” Deadpool turned another corner, getting out of sight of the pursuing Avengers long enough to sprint into the road again. There was a barrage of honks that had Peter clapping his hands over his ears, but that didn’t stop him from nodding quickly. Even if it was a lie, if it was a trap, Peter couldn’t afford to let this lead slip through his fingers.

 

“Get there as soon as you can but  _ don’t get caught!” _

 

“I don’t  _ intend _ —” He was cut off again as Deadpool hauled him forward, literally throwing him against a wall.

 

“Climb!” Deadpool hissed at him, but he never stopped. Peter didn’t wait around, using the mere moments of broken eyeline to flash up the wall, dropping flat onto the roof. He listened hard— if Tony or Sam were around, he’d still be visible up here. He could hear the pounding footsteps of the pursuing Avengers below, following the way that Deadpool had gone, but there was none of that heavy mechanical whirring he associated with either of the airborne superheroes. After a few minutes, he inched his way up to peer over the edge of the building. Traffic had returned to normal. Deadpool and the Avengers were nowhere in sight.

 

Peter fled.

 

Back to his costume, changing in a hurry. The longer he spent as Peter Parker, the more likely he was to get caught, especially with  _ the Avengers  _ out looking for him. Why were the Avengers trying to talk to Peter Parker? The possibilities were terrifying.

 

Mask firmly in place, backpack over his shoulder, Peter threw himself off the building, switching back into Spider-Man Mode.

 

His search for Dr. Octavius had been fruitless over the past four days. He never should have listened to Daredevil, he thought for what must have been the thousandth time, bitter vitriol roiling in his stomach. He should have gone after him that night. Even if Peter had lost, even if he’d died, at least he wouldn’t be stuck with this feeling of  _ failure. _

 

But Deadpool said that he knew someone. It could be a lie— he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Deadpool was luring him to that rooftop in order to… in order to what? Not attack him again, surely, or he would have done it just now, while Peter wasn’t able to fight back without revealing his identity. The Avengers were there, sure, but Clint hadn’t noticed Deadpool in time. The man could have shot Peter through the heart and no one would have been able to save him in time.

 

So if not to murder him, what else could Deadpool have in mind?

 

Maybe he would try to kidnap him again. It seemed unlikely, since he’d  _ just _ had Peter in his grasp. Could it be that the Avengers had been too strong a deterrent? He knew that he wouldn’t get away with a teenager slung over his shoulder, so he intended to try again when the superheroes were absent. But Peter would be on guard. The guy had to know that. So how could he expect a plan like that to work? He may be kind of crazy, but he wasn’t stupid.

 

So maybe Peter should entertain the idea that he may be telling the truth. That was kind of his style, after all: hopeful optimism.

 

But he found that it was harder to slip into his old frame of mind than he would have thought. He didn’t trust Deadpool. He didn’t even particularly want to. He wanted to get this meeting out of the way and he wanted to find Doctor Octopus.

 

What he would do once he found him was another long series of questions he couldn’t bring himself to answer.

 

Peter was a born-and-bred New Yorker, so he knew how to get around. On top of that, he was Spider-Man, who spent hours every single day swinging through the streets, memorizing the layouts of the neighborhoods. He knew this city inside and out, probably more than almost anyone else in town. If not for that, he might have had more trouble finding the Jamaica Towers building in the south of Queens.

 

He passed up the high rise in favor of clambering up the side of the one around the corner from it.  _ Obviously. _ There was absolutely no chance Peter was going to wait for Deadpool on the roof that might be booby-trapped, or maybe he was planning an ambush, or… any number of things, really. He had to scope out the area, first. And by scope out the area, clearly he meant crouch on a neighboring rooftop and wait for Deadpool to show up.

 

And show up he did, nearly an hour later. Peter had almost given up a dozen times, tempted to just leave and resume his search for Octavius on his own.

 

But he’d seen where that had gotten him. He needed this lead. He couldn’t afford to give up.

 

Peter, lying on his stomach on the edge of the roof, was so zoned out as he fiddled with one webshooter that he didn’t realize Deadpool was on the roof with him until he flopped down, heaving a groan that startled Peter nearly out of his skin.

 

“Oh my god,” The mercenary was complaining loudly. Peter noticed that there were fresh holes marred by bloodstains in his suit. A chill went through him as he identified them as healed gunshot wounds. “It took  _ forever _ to loose those goons. They were  _ determined. _ I don’t know what they thought I did with you, but they were sure willing to chase me halfway to Manhattan.”

 

Peter scrambled upwards, pushing himself onto his feet next to Deadpool. The adult’s head tipped back lazily as his gaze followed, one hand scratching absently at one of the spots of blood. Peter’s head was spinning with questions— how did Deadpool know he’d be on  _ this _ roof? Why had he kidnapped him from Gwen’s funeral? Who had Deadpool told about his identity? But there was really only one question that mattered, so he asked that one, instead. “Where’s Octavius?”

 

“Right now? Fighting your good friend Mr. Smerdyakov, probably, to draw the A-Team off your trail. Shit! I already used A-Team, didn’t I? How embarrassing.”

 

“Who is Smerdyakov?” Peter asked, baffled. He tried to think if he had ever heard the name before, but nothing came to mind.

 

“You don’t know him?” Deadpool sounded surprised as he leaned back on his hands, staring up at Peter. “He’s the guy who hired me to snag you just now so the Avengers wouldn’t find out who you were. I kind of got the impression that you were friends, or cohorts, or something.”

 

“No,” Peter’s brow furrowed under his mask and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I have no idea who that is. He hired you? So you got paid to do that?” His eyes narrowed into a glare. “Did you tell him who I am?”

 

“No—” Deadpool’s earnest tone was honestly shocking: he hadn’t been expecting that level of desperate sincerity. “I haven’t told anybody, I swear. Super-bro code, Spidey, I would never reveal your identity.”

 

“Super-bro code?” Peter demanded sharply. “You tried to kill me!”

 

“That was before I knew you were a kid,” Deadpool defended, shoulders rising. “I  _ never _ would have taken that job if I knew you were fifteen. That’s just messed up. I may kill people, but I’m not about hurting kids.”

 

“I’m not a kid!” Peter exclaimed, fists clenching, and Deadpool’s feet kicked against the wall where they hung over the ledge.

 

“Sorry, but you are,” Deadpool answered with a shrug. “A kid who’s been through a lot of shit before, sure, but a kid. Oh, by the way, I did some research on your tragic backstory, I hope you don’t mind.”

 

“I mind.”

 

“No use crying over spilled milk, literal baby boy,” Deadpool waved his objection away with one flippant hand, and Peter glowered. “Anyway, what was I saying before you so rudely interrupted and we ended up on an unrelated tangent? Oh, right: Smerdyakov hired me, yes, but I’m actually doing this pro bono.”

 

“What? Why?” Peter’s fingers loosened, but his suspicion didn’t wane. Why would Deadpool help him? For  _ free? _ He’d been ready to slaughter Peter for a boatload of cash not long ago. 

 

“Hey,” Deadpool’s voice was deadly serious when he spoke again, startling Peter out of his reverie. “I meant it when I said I don’t hurt kids. I’m very straightforward about that. It says it like, a million times on my website.”   
  
Peter remembered Gwen texting him something similar and his heart ached.

 

“So someone hired me to kill a kid. I’m not happy about that. This Smerdyakov guy promised to help me get even. And that’s something I  _ am _ happy about. Plus— the opportunity to fix things with my favorite superhero was too good to pass up.” 

 

Deadpool’s voice was light and goofy again by the end of his final sentence, but Peter still felt unsettled.

 

“You can’t just  _ fix _ trying to kill me,” Peter spat. “Did you have anything to do with Gwen’s death?  _ Anything? _ If you lie to me, I swear, I’ll…”

 

“You’ll kill me? You’re welcome to try, hell, it’s only fair,” Deadpool held up his hands placatingly. “But I didn’t have anything to do with Malibu Barbie taking the high dive.”

 

Rage flashed through Peter so suddenly he didn’t realize he had moved until his hands were gripping the front of Deadpool’s suit as he lifted him into the air. His hands were shaking and his eyes were wide.

 

“Don’t you talk about her like that,” He hissed, and he realized distantly his breath was rasping in and out of him far too shallowly. It was like a panic attack, but all he felt was a deep well of quivering numbness topped by a thin, crispy layer of fire that was threatening to catch on the gasoline in his stomach. “Don’t you ever talk about her like that. Gwen— Gwen was so  _ good _ , she deserved so much  _ better _ —” His grip faltered for a moment and he nearly dropped Deadpool over the edge of the building by accident. The man didn’t make so much as a peep, instead listening to him with rapt attention, although he did grip Peter’s wrists tightly in order to hang on.

 

“She didn’t deserve what happened to her.” His head bowed. “She was the smartest, sweetest, most incredible person in the world and she got caught in the crossfire. She was innocent. She’s dead and…” He lifted his gaze to Deadpool’s face again, words like a razor in his throat. “You can’t dis-” His voice cracked. “I won’t let you disrespect her like that.”

 

“You loved her?” Deadpool’s voice was quieter than Peter expected. Nearly sympathetic.

 

“Yeah.” Peter’s shoulders slumped and he felt all the nervous energy seep out of him abruptly. He lowered Deadpool back to the rooftop, but he didn’t let go of the suit.   
  
“I know how that feels,” Deadpool agreed. “Sometimes bad things happen to good people—  _ especially _ good people closely associated with people in masks, good or bad notwithstanding. It’s rough. Sorry.”   
  
Peter let go of him, fingers feeling stiff as if they’d been clenched for days instead of moments. He felt drained, now, and he didn’t look up as Deadpool let go of his arms. A few beats of silence passed before Deadpool put a hand on his shoulder.   
  
“Kid,” He prompted, and Peter watched as his head tipped to the side. “How long has it been since you slept?” Peter stared at him, momentarily baffled, then frowned.   
  
“I don’t know,” Peter answered, contrary. “Why does that matter?”   
  
“It kind of seems like you probably haven’t had yourself a siesta in a couple of days.”   
  
“So what?” Peter demanded, arms crossing over his chest.   
  
“Well,” Deadpool seemed to be frowning. “It’s not like we’ve got anywhere to be right now, not until Smerdyakov finishes distracting the Avengers, anyway. I was thinking maybe you should take a nap or something. You’re looking pretty beat.”   
  
“I’m not going to sleep. You have to tell me where Doc Ock is! If this Smerdyakov guy is trying to fight him, he’s in trouble. Doc Ock is a tough customer, and no normal guy is going to be able to stand up to him.” Peter’s brow furrowed under his mask as he scowled back up at him.

 

“I don’t think he’s a normal guy,” Deadpool mused, head tipping exaggeratedly to the side. “We haven’t met, face to face, but some guys were talking about how Ock was fighting Spider-Man downtown. You’re here, though, so he must have some kind of superpower, to be able to mimic your powers.”

 

Peter’s heart nearly stopped in his chest.

 

“He’s— he’s pretending to be Spider-Man?” Peter demanded, voice hoarse. “He’s  _ disguised as me _ ?”

 

“I don’t know, maybe,” Deadpool’s full attention was back on him. 

 

“Smerdyakov is the Chameleon! I have to find them!” Peter shouted, spinning to face the edge of the building. He was gathering himself to leap off when Deadpool grabbed him by the shoulder and tossed him backwards, onto the gravel roof. He landed with a yelp, then launched himself back to his feet, furious. “What the heck are you doing?”

 

“Saving your life,” Deadpool was fiddling with his wrists, and as Peter glanced at them, his blood ran cold. “I don’t think you would have managed that landing without these,” he held up one arm, adorned with one of Peter’s web shooters.   
  
When had he taken those? How hadn’t Peter noticed?   
  
Peter’s arms went out to his sides as he readied himself for a fight. “Give those back, Deadpool.”

 

“Nah,” Deadpool shrugged one shoulder, turning to face Peter completely. The teen found himself suddenly uncertain: the joking tone had faded into something more cold. “I don’t think so. Here’s how this is going to go down, twinkle toes: you’re going to sit your little tush down and you’re going to take a nap while we wait for Smerdyakov to call. Otherwise, you’re going to be too bushed to be of any use to  _ anybody _ , let alone little Ms. Stacy, when you finally  _ do _ get your chance to fight Octavius.”

 

“Why do you even care?” Peter demanded. “I’m not your problem. So back off and give me my stuff back, before I have to  _ take _ it back.”

 

“You can try, baby boy,” Deadpool told him, voice threatening despite its softness. Peter watched as Deadpool’s fingers settled on the triggers of his webshooters, but then there wasn’t time for analysis, because he had to dodge a spray of webs.

 

Peter cursed himself for fiddling with the web shooters while he’d been waiting for Deadpool to show: instead of the long, thin threads that he had used to swing up to the building, the villain was spraying the thick, goopy strands that he used to restrain criminals. Of  _ course _ . He should have just left them alone. He wasn’t entirely sure that he could break out of the webbing if Deadpool got him well enough. He was strong, but his webbing was, too. He’d personally seen it support way too many large vehicles for him to be comfortable in the knowledge that he could get free if he needed to.

 

“Deadpool! Stop!” He cried, throwing himself out of the way of another barrage, tucking into a roll across the roof as more followed. Deadpool was managing to shoot those far more quickly and accurately than he had hoped he would be able to.

 

“Not until you do,” Deadpool called back, and Peter gritted his teeth. Alright, he thought, somewhat fuzzily. He needed to get his webshooters back. He needed to get close. They would be less effective up close, anyway. He spun and launched himself towards the ledge where Deadpool had been, then let out a cry of dismay as he realized that the man was on the movie.   
  
No longer standing still, Deadpool seemed to have gotten the hang of his webshooters well enough to try firing off a few shots while he ran across the roof, and Peter had to leap again to dodge.

 

Running wasn’t much of an option, he fumed, as it had been in his past encounters with Deadpool. For one, Deadpool had his webshooters, so he couldn’t swing away. But more importantly, _Deadpool_ _had his web shooters!_  
  
“I thought you were on my side!” Peter shouted an accusation, jumping high. It had the advantage of taking him away from the walls and floor that Deadpool was trying to attach him to, but the villain took the opportunity to spray a swatch of webbing straight against one shoulder. Great, Peter thought venomously as he drew his legs up in order to kick Deadpool in the back as the man turned to run. Peter managed a backflip off of him and landed in a crouch before lurching to his feet.

  
Deadpool grunted as the kick sent him sprawling, but he turned the movement into a roll that had him back on his feet even as Peter chased after him.

 

“I  _ am _ on your side, kid,” Deadpool told him, voice fierce. “I’m trying to help you. It would be way easier on both of us if you’d sit the hell down and relax, but since you’re not going to do it on your own, I’ll have to  _ make _ you!” The words were punctuated with a spinning kick that nearly knocked Peter off his feet before he managed to stick his feet to the ground to regain his balance.

 

Webbing slapped against his ankles and feet, startling a cry of annoyance out of him. He heaved one leg back, feeling the fibers stretching and snapping around it, but then Deadpool shoved against his chest, sending him windmilling.

 

“No, no, no,” Peter yelped, unable to regain his balance before slamming into the ground, and then the mercenary was on him. Layer after layer of webs over his arms, his torso, his legs, and even as he struggled, snapping one strand after another, Deadpool laid on scores more.   
  
He heard a hissing puff of air over the sound of his own cries of rage as his attempts to break free petered out, and his gaze flashed over to Deadpool, who was still squeezing the triggers, but nothing was happening.

 

“Hey, quick question,” Deadpool said, sounding way calmer than Peter was happy with. He gritted his teeth under his mask, heart racing in a way that suggested a panic attack was well on its way. “Why aren’t they working anymore?”

 

“You used all the web, jerk!” Peter’s voice was a hoarse shout as his breath came in ragged, constricted gasps. Not much room for deep breathing, in the cocoon Deadpool had all but encased him in. “You’re  _ out _ .”

 

“Oh, shit, whoops,” Deadpool had the grace to look chagrined as he eyed Peter. “You’re, uh, stuck, right? You’re not getting out of there?”

 

“Screw you!”

 

“Ooh, watch that potty mouth, big boy,” Deadpool snickered, and, to Peter’s fury, the man squatted down next to his head. “Alright. Cool. Now that we’re nice and settled, let’s have a talk.”

 

“When I get out of this,” Peter seethed. “You’re going to wish you’d never met me.”   
  
“I very much doubt that, peanut,” Deadpool reached out and pinched Peter’s cheek. “Even if you kill me a hundred times, I think I’ll be happy I met you. I am your biggest fan, after all.”

 

“Don’t touch me!”

 

“Aw, come on, angel, don’t be like that. I’m not hurting you, right?”

 

“You trapped me in my own web!” Peter cried, pulling harder at his trapped limbs. Between the excessive web use and his own creeping exhaustion, he was running out of the hope that he would be able to get out of this under his own power.

 

“Well  _ yeah _ ,” Deadpool agreed. “Because you were about to  _ leave _ . Look, kid, just shut up and listen to the adult for a second.” He leaned close, one finger pointing in Peter’s face. “I know you’ve been running around this city without adult supervision for months, being your own boss and everything. And that’s cool. I can admire that. You remind me of myself, a little bit, actually, but that’s not the point. Or, well, maybe it is. You think you know what’s best because you’re a superhero, or maybe because you’re smart, or because you’re not used to having other people look out for you the way you should be. But listen up, buddy: you keep doing what you’re doing, and you’re going to end up dead.

 

“I don’t mean living on the streets, or wherever you’re staying, although that’s not great for you, either. I really mean this whole revenge thing with Doc Ock.” Peter opened his mouth to interrupt, but Deadpool barreled on, speaking over him. “I support that, too, revenge is a totally worthy cause, but you’re going about it wrong. You can’t just chase a ghost around Queens, hoping to run into him and kick his ass. Because look at you, kid,” His hand rested on the top of his head and Peter stiffened as he prepared for Deadpool to snatch his mask away. It surprised him when he didn’t— he just allowed his hand to rest against Peter’s mask in what might have been a comforting gesture, in another situation, from another person. “I beat you in like, a minute. I never should have been able to do that. You’re way stronger and faster and smarter than me, and I can admit that. So how’d I beat you so easily?”

 

“You cheated,” Peter seethed, but Deadpool just shook his head.   
  
“Cheating in fights isn’t even a thing,” Deadpool scoffed. “Anything goes out here. You know that. Think about it, kid. Have you ever learned what happens when you go without sleep? I bet you have, smart kid like you. Your motor skills drop, your concentration drops, your judgement drops. Eventually you’re gonna hit the microsleep stage. You know what that is?” Peter’s silence must have been answer enough, at least for the merc, because he continued.

 

“You start falling asleep wherever you are. Sitting, standing, walking, doesn’t matter. You’ll fall asleep for a couple seconds at a time as your brain fucking tries not to  _ die _ . And after that come the hallucinations, bud. And you don’t want to be hallucinating when you’re a superpowered teenager on a mission for revenge.” Another silence fell over them and Deadpool finally took his hand away. “Did you fall asleep?” Deadpool prompted suspiciously, and Peter snorted.

 

“No, I’m not asleep, jerk.”

 

“Oh. Okay. Just checking. Anyway, what I’m trying to tell you is that if you can’t beat me, you can’t beat Octavius. I’m not nearly as much of a threat to you as he is, but this was easy, kid. He’d rip you limb from limb.”

 

“So what’s your point?” Peter snapped. “You want me to nap?”

 

“Yes,” Deadpool answered blandly. “That’s exactly what I’m getting at. You need to sleep. Go after him again once you’re actually rested.”

 

“But I have a lead,” Peter pled. “You said the Chameleon is fighting him  _ right now _ .”

 

“Disguised as you,” Deadpool reminded him. “To throw the Avengers off your trail. If a second Spider-Man shows up when there’s already one there, they’re going to realize what’s up, and Peter Parker will be back on the ‘Might Actually Be Spider-Man’ list.”

 

“That’s not important,” Peter snapped, although he was torn.

 

“There’ll be other opportunities,” Deadpool cajoled. “You’ll have another shot. Doc Ock isn’t done with you yet, so he’ll find you one way or another. My advice would be to set a trap yourself. Maybe he’ll fall for it.”

 

“I wasn’t asking your advice,” Peter argued, and Deadpool shrugged.

 

“But as long as I’m handing out wisdom anyway, I might as well give you that little nugget, too.”

 

“Oh, wow, thanks,” Peter deadpanned, glowering. “What a good friend.”

 

“Right? That’s what I’ve been saying, but nobody listens.” Deadpool shook his head in mock despair, and anger coiled in Peter’s stomach. “Anyway, kid, do you get what I’m trying to say to you? You get why I’m doing this?”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes, you do. You just don’t want to admit it. You’re really clever, Spidey,” Deadpool’s hand was back on his head, and Peter twisted his neck to look the other way, stubbornly scowling out towards the sky. “You know that this is a suicide mission. So why are you doing it? You want to die?” That caused Peter to whip his head back around.

 

“No,” He barked, bristling. “It’s  _ not _ . I can  _ do it _ .”

 

“No, you can’t, Peter,” The teenager cringed at the use of his name. “Alright. I’ll guess, then. Is it survivor’s guilt? You feel bad that you’re alive and your girlfriend is dead?”

 

“It’s not like that,” Peter replied defensively, not sure why he was even bothering to  _ talk  _ to this guy. It wasn’t worth his time. But, he supposed reluctantly, it wasn’t as if he could get up and leave  _ anyway. _

 

“What’s it like, then?” Deadpool sat down, legs crossed, and propped his chin against his fist. His body language was clear: he had all the time in the world. Peter groaned aloud, head dropping back against the gritty rooftop.

 

“I just—” What was he supposed to say, here? Was honesty really the best way to go? The last thing he wanted was to be emotionally vulnerable with Deadpool, of all people, but heck, that had already happened. What did he have to lose, aside from his pride? At this point, pride was the least of his worries. “I can’t let her down. I can’t stand the idea of him getting away with it.”

 

Deadpool  _ tsked _ behind his mask, head shaking. “If that were the case, Pete,” Another wince as a sharp dagger of pain lanced through his chest. Deadpool seemed to notice, because he corrected himself. “Spidey. You would be way more willing to rest up and get  _ ready _ to take him down, right? You’re in a hurry, here. We both know that you’ll take him down, eventually. What’s the rush? No one’s getting any deader.”

 

“That’s not the point,” Peter felt like he was floundering, head barely above water, and the webbing pinning him to the ground wasn’t helping.

 

“What is the point, Spidey?” Deadpool’s tone took a sharper cast. “Do you want revenge?” Peter was quiet. “Answer me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you want to get it yourself?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you want him dead?”

 

Peter didn’t answer again. 

 

“Do you want him dead, Spider-Man?”

 

Peter considered. He didn’t want Doc Ock to ever hurt someone this way again. He didn’t want him to be able to continue breaking out of Ravencroft over and over again, whenever he felt like it. He didn’t want him to be able to continue terrorizing New York.

 

Did that mean that he needed to be dead? Did Peter need to kill him?

 

But Spider-Man didn’t kill, he argued with himself, feeling Deadpool’s eyes boring into his mask. Spider-Man was non-lethal,  _ always _ . It wasn’t his place to take someone out of the world, because no matter who it was, no one’s family deserved to lose them like that. Everyone had  _ someone _ who would miss them if something were to happen to them. Peter couldn’t imagine taking that kind of decision into his own hands.

 

“No,” Peter answered finally, and Deadpool let out what was clearly a sigh of relief.

 

“ _ There _ you are,” He said, patting Peter’s head again. “I was wondering if maybe there was a  _ different _ hero under that mask.”

 

“I don’t want him dead,” Peter frowned up at him. “But it might not be an option of what I want. It might be a question of what  _ needs to happen _ .”

 

“Spidey,” Peter could tell that Deadpool was frowning at him. “That’s not your M.O.”

 

Peter stared up at the disapproving merc, considering arguing that Deadpool didn’t exactly have the moral high ground, in a conversation like this, but his adrenaline was fading fast and he could feel the weight of exhaustion settling heavily over his bones.

 

“Things change,” he announced instead, turning his head away again, eyes closing stubbornly. He didn’t want to see the disappointed slump to the mercenary’s shoulders or the expressionless, massively emotive mask that he knew was still aimed his way. He didn’t want to know what Deadpool thought of this. It didn’t matter. Peter wasn’t interested. He would do what he had to, and that would be the end of it. One way or another, it would be the end of it.

 

“I guess they do,” Deadpool eventually relented, voice calm and casual in a way that forced that guilt straight into Peter’s throat despite the way he was trying his best to avoid it. “Anyway, Spidey, you should get some sleep. All that webbing isn’t going to dissolve anytime soon, I bet, and I’m not about to cut you out. You might as well take a nap while you’ve got the time.” A beat of silence, then some of that Deadpool-brand enthusiasm returned, but it sounded almost forced. “And then, when you wake up, you and me can go find Doc Ock, okay? I’ll help you beat him.”

 

“Not interested.”

 

“Sleep on it,” Deadpool insisted, and Peter rolled his eyes behind the lids. As much as he wanted to continue arguing that he wasn’t tired, he didn’t need to sleep, the four days of near constant movement had fully caught up with him. His body ached, his head hurt, and his eyes burned, even closed. He let out a long breath and

 

_ Stood outside the door, a smile on his face. He had just knocked, probably, because it opened to reveal Aunt May beaming at him. _

 

_ “Peter, Gwen,” She exclaimed, delighted, and of course, Gwen was there next to him, holding her hand. “I’m so happy you could make it. Come inside!” _

 

_ “Hi, Aunt May,” Peter stepped forward and hugged her tightly for hours, grief and joy warring nonsensically in his chest. “Thanks for having us.” He let go and made room for Gwen, who hugged Aunt May as he looked around. The apartment was just as it should have been: photos on the walls, television turned off but playing something anyway, probably, Aunt May’s coat hung next to Uncle Ben’s on the rack. “Is Uncle Ben here?” _

 

_ “Of course, of course,” Aunt May fussed over him as he and Gwen hung up their coats, shaking off the summer heat. “How are the kids?” Peter hooked his Spider-Man mask onto one of the pegs, and quickly looked away from it to find Gwen. She didn’t look right, but it was her, alright. _

 

_ “They’re good,” Peter was in his thirties, obviously, he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. He and Gwen had two or three kids, or maybe she had said  _ kid _ , and they only had one. It was hard to say for sure. “MJ’s watching them tonight.” _

 

_ “How sweet,” They were in the kitchen, watching Aunt May cook. Peter knew she and Gwen were talking, but all he could do was watch the two of them. It didn’t matter what they were saying, just that they were saying it. The two of them had a rapport built over years of closeness that introduced a burst of love into the still tumultuous emotions still wrestling inside him. He put his Spider-Man mask on the table with a smile that didn’t fit his face quite right. _

 

_ There was a hand on his shoulder and Peter turned around. He was standing in the park with Uncle Ben, who hugged him like he always had, and for a few moments, Peter couldn’t breathe. _

 

_ “Good to see you, Pete,” He mumbled, face soft, graying hair showing no sign of the years that were supposed to have past. Peter found that he couldn’t answer. “Your Aunt May and I have been missin’ you. You don’t stop by much anymore.” _

 

_ “I’m sorry,” Peter managed to gasp, but it came out as a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Uncle Ben.” _

 

_ “Ah,” His uncle waved a hand in the air, dismissing his plea for forgiveness altogether. “Don’t worry about it. We’re just glad you and Gwen find the time. We know you’re busy.” _

 

_ “You come first,” Peter said. “You always come first. You’re the most important thing.” _

 

_ “I know that,” Uncle Ben assured him as Peter draped his Spider-Man mask over the back of a bench. “I know.” Gwen’s arm slung around his waist and Aunt May smiled at him, shoulder to shoulder with Uncle Ben, now. _

 

_ “I love you,” Peter said to his Uncle, then to his Aunt, “I love you.” He met Gwen’s eyes. They were a much icier blue than they should have been, but that was okay. “I love you.” _

 

_ “We love you, too.” _

 

_ “Peter,” It was Gwen, and he turned to look at her fully. “What is that in your hands?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join my discord server! You'll receive updates, maybe like, deleted scenes, sneak peeks, I don't know, you can pester me for details?? Talk to some cool people?? https://discord.gg/4hdXVw4 I'd love to have you there!!


	12. The Neverending Month (Part 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited about this chapter, tbh. Let me know what yall think.

**April**

 

Peter woke under the dark sky to the sound of a raucous snore. His head felt light and he felt like the air he was breathing was so thin it barely brushed through his throat. It almost felt like his whole body was vibrating, and his heart was racing in his chest like he’d set his bike to first gear and was spinning uselessly at the pedals, getting nowhere.

 

Peter sat up, brushing off the vaguely sticky dust that littered his suit. There was a heap of the stuff against the far wall, where the wind seemed to have blown it. He turned his head towards the sound of the snoring and was unsurprised to see Deadpool, leaned against the nearest wall. His head was tipped back and his chest was heaving with the snorts that were coming out of the man. Peter’s webshooters were still on his wrists.

 

Peter tugged his mask off of his head, in desperate need of the fresh air as he tried to feel normal again. His body was still buzzing, but he staggered to his feet, tugging a backup canister of fluid out of his belt. The dream he’d just had was still vivid and fresh in his mind, and even the distracting sounds coming from Deadpool weren’t enough to keep his eyes from dropping down to the Spider-Man mask in his hand. Peter placed it gingerly on the ground, then checked his hand, nearly expecting it to be there again. 

 

But this wasn’t a dream, and it stayed patiently where he’d dropped it.

 

Peter stepped around it, approaching Deadpool on quiet feet. It didn’t particularly seem like he needed to bother: any sound his footsteps may have made would have been covered up by the noise the mercenary was making. It was really...  excessive, if he was being honest.   
  
Peter crouched down next to the assassin’s slumped over form, taking in the relaxed lines of his body: the way his palms faced up, empty, fingers loosely curled in his sleep. Occasionally one of his feet would twitch, or his head would give a little jerk. It was almost surreal, seeing the man like this. 

 

Their relationship, thus far, had been nothing less than tumultuous: during their first meeting the man had been playful, silly, and killed a kidnapper in front of him. The second time, Deadpool had tried to kill  _ him _ . Then there had been a significant stretch of time when Peter had been wary of any flash of red he saw, because he knew that the merc was still after him, shooting from afar.   
  
Then there had been the day Deadpool had shot him and discovered his identity. That still gave him the shivers to think about, and a hand hovered protectively over his side, more out of habit than any lingering hurt. The wound was long gone, after all.   
  
After that, the man had disappeared for a month. That thought gave him pause: had it really only been a month? No: not even that long, technically. Eighteen days. Not even three weeks since he’d been shot by Deadpool. Not even three weeks since things had been, more or less, normal.

 

The last four days of his life had been the longest span of time in his whole life. Since the moment Gwen died, since she’d fallen off that bridge, time had slowed, wrapped tenfold around every second, dragging each moment out almost unbearably long. The last four nights, spent sleepless, swinging through the city, searching wildly for any sign of Dr. Octavius, had felt like years.

 

His body didn’t feel tired, anymore, as he crouched on the dark rooftop, but his heart did. His heart felt a million years old and he was so  _ tired _ , even as his body yearned for movement.

 

Peter reached out and unclasped one of the webshooters from Deadpool’s wrist.

 

The man startled awake, head raising as his bleary voice muttered something, but by the time he seemed to focus on Peter, the teen had already swapped out the cartridges of the webshooter and attached the empty hand to the ground with what was probably more webbing than was strictly necessary.

 

“Hey,” Deadpool protested, tugging at his arm even as Peter took back the second shooter. “That’s foul play, Spidey.” Peter noticed, despite the squirming of the one arm, the man wasn’t bringing the second into play. No point in taking chances, he thought stonily as he sprayed the second arm down before replacing the cartridge in the remaining webshooter.

 

“Where’s the Chameleon?” Peter asked, his voice still rough from sleep, and Deadpool’s head dropped back as he groaned aloud.

 

“You woke me up for that? Look, kid, he’s supposed to be calling me back, I’m not sure when.”

 

“You’ve talked to him on the phone?” Peter prompted, eyes flashing down to the merc’s belt. Sure enough, there was a phone attached, somewhat tackily, to the belt itself. Was the case bedazzled? Weirdly enough, that didn’t surprise him. He swiped at the screen, raising an eyebrow as the home screen opened. “You really ought to password protect your phone, you know,” he quipped, feeling a dull reflection of himself somewhere under the numbing of the grief. “Otherwise anyone can get in.”

 

Peter opened the recent call list. There were three calls from that day, and he ignored older listings in favor of going over those. “Shiklah,” he read aloud. “Ellie, and an unknown number. Gee, I wonder which one it could be.”

 

“Don’t call my ex,” Deadpool plead, surprisingly, and Peter had to snort. “I don’t really want her to know a teenager has me tied up.”

 

“Don’t make it weird,” Peter advised with a frown, wondering whether Shiklah or Ellie was the ex, but he jabbed his finger at the unknown number, waiting as it rang. He lifted the phone to his ear, heart rising into his throat as he suddenly realized what he was doing. He was  _ calling the Chameleon _ . On the  _ phone _ . The guy who had attacked Peter several times already.

 

The ringing went on for long enough that he almost felt relieved: maybe he wouldn’t pick up. But then, of course, there was the click and an open line.

 

“I told you not to call this number,” A voice said, one Peter didn’t recognize, but that didn’t mean anything. The teen swallowed, suddenly unable to speak, and the silence lingered for a few moments before the voice snapped out a sharp rebuke of “ _ Deadpool _ .”

 

“No,” Peter finally found his voice, slightly strangled as it may be. “It’s not Deadpool.” There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, then a slow exhale. When the person on the other end spoke next, his voice was much gentler.

 

“Spider-Man.” A slight pause, then, almost reverently, “ _ Peter _ .”

 

“Yes,” The Chameleon knew who he was, Peter acknowledged with a swallow. He’d been pretty sure, before, but now it was apparent that the man knew him well enough to recognize his voice over the phone. That was more chilling than he cared to admit. “And you’re Dmitri Smerdyakov.”

 

“Yes,” The man breathed back, and Peter shuddered.

 

“The Chameleon.”

 

“Yes,” He said again, and Peter could almost feel the hunger in his silence.

 

“You disguised yourself as me,” Peter said into the phone, listening hard. “To throw the Avengers off the trail of my identity. Why?”

 

“You don’t want them to know who you are, right?” The Chameleon prompted, and Peter frowned.

 

“But why do you care?” Peter challenged him, fist tightening on the phone. Deadpool was watching him raptly.

 

“I admire you, Peter,” The Chameleon murmured. “I admire your strength, and your intelligence, and your willingness to take matters into your own hands.”

 

“You attacked me,” Peter’s voice was tight and sharp, and he heard the Chameleon sigh again.

 

“Yes,” he agreed. “I did. Under the orders of… my employer.” Peter’s blood chilled again as he remembered the man from the docks. The man who had pushed memories into his mind so thick he got lost in them. “Can I tell you something, Peter?”

 

Peter hesitated. He didn’t trust the Chameleon. How could he? But he might as well listen. He would just have to… take everything with a grain of salt. “Tell me.”

 

“My employer wants to own you,” He whispered into the phone, and Peter stiffened. “He wants to turn you away from your path to work for him. He wants to destroy, and he wants you to be a tool for him to do so.”

 

There was a long pause as Peter digested that. The teen swallowed hard, shooting a glance at Deadpool, who was still watching him with a somewhat stressful intensity. The Chameleon had nearly managed to kidnap him, before… what would have happened to him if he’d succeeded? Where would he have taken Peter? Would he have made it out again? Thoughts of Bucky and the Winter Soldier flashed through his mind.

 

“Peter, are you still there?”

 

“I’m still here,” Peter agreed, averting his gaze.

 

“I want to help you, Peter,” The Chameleon murmured. “What can I do to help you?”

 

Peter seized upon the question. “I want Doc Ock. Do you know where he is?”

 

“I do,” The Chameleon’s answer was like a shot of adrenaline straight into his veins. “I can deliver him to you. In one hour, the power in the city will shut off again.” Peter swallowed. He should ask about the outtages. He should be a good superhero and put New York before his quest to bring Doc Ock down. He should put a stop to whatever was happening that was shutting down so much of the city.   
  
“Then what?”

 

“Then I will lure Octavius out into the city. You’ll be able to find him in Lower Manhattan. The Lower East side.”

 

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” Peter demanded, nearly crunching the phone in his fist at the thought.

 

“Peter, it absolutely  _ is _ a trap,” The Chameleon chided him gently. “But it’s one that  _ you’re _ setting. Don’t waste this opportunity, Spider-Man. It may be the last one you get.”

 

“What does that mean?” Peter demanded.

 

“Octavius is out for blood,” The man answered, voice soft. “He intends for this to be your final confrontation. I hope that you’ll beat him, Peter. I have to go, now, and take care of Octavius for you. But you can call me any time.”

 

Peter gulped. “Okay. Thank you.”

 

“Of course, Peter. Anything for you.” There was a click on the other end and Peter let out a shuddering breath, lowering the phone from his ear.

 

“He yell at you?” Deadpool asked sympathetically, and Peter shot him a look, then shook his head, one hand running through his hair.

 

“No. He was… really nice, actually.”

 

“You trust him?”

 

“Absolutely not,” Peter scoffed as he cast a glance towards where his mask was still lying innocuously on the ground.

 

“Probably for the best,” Deadpool agreed. “Usually the people who hire me aren’t very trustworthy.”

 

“Birds of a feather, I guess,” Peter quipped, giving both of his webshooters a quick test and a brisk nod as Deadpool snickered, shifting against the wall.

 

“Don’t suppose I can convince you to get me out of this before you go?” The merc asked hopefully, and Peter turned to look at him, face scornful.

 

“Not a chance,” He told him, arms crossing. “At this point, I can’t count the number of times you’ve tried to kill me. And since I don’t need you to find Doc Ock anymore, I’m definitely not giving you another shot.” He paused. “You know, I didn’t mean to make that pun, but I’m feeling a little better, so I’m gonna let it stand.”

 

"Okay," Deadpool admitted. "That's fair. I haven't exactly given you a lot of reasons to trust me. But consider this: I don't want to sit here for two hours until this stuff disappears. Can't you do a super-bro a favor? Just this once?"

 

Peter considered him, eyebrows lifting as he took in the, somehow, pleading expression on Deadpool's mask, then he crossed back to where his own mask was lying on the ground. It seemed momentarily malevolent, there on the darkness of the roof, and goosebumps ran over Peter's skin before he picked it up in both hands and tugged it over his head.    
  
"Go back to sleep," The teen advised. "I'm keeping your phone," He added, attaching it to his own belt as he scooped up his backpack. Then he took a running start, leaping over Deadpool with a flip and slinging out a web to catch himself.

 

It was coming. His opportunity. In the next hour, he would find Octavius and bring him down. Although he still hadn't exactly decided what that would mean, he knew that the final showdown was coming. It was about time.

 

Nervous energy buzzed under his skin as Peter flashed through the city, the lights merely streaks against the corners of his vision. He could feel Deadpool's phone against his hip like a weight: the Chameleon could be lying to him, he had to admit, but wasn't it worth it to take the chance? How could he have forgiven himself if he hadn't? He had passed up too many opportunities already. His compunctions were gone. The time for thinking was over. It was time for justice.

 

It was time for revenge.

 

Lower Manhattan, Peter told himself as he swung his way through the Williamsburg Bridge. His enemy was there, somewhere, and had been for months, probably. He wished he knew more: a corner where he could find him, maybe a building name. Then, once he was done with Ock, he would be able to track down where he had been and find out what he had been doing to the city over the last several months.

 

No time for that now, Peter scolded himself. Not now. Later. Right now, he had to come up with a plan to bring Dr. Octavius down once and for all. A quick stop in an alley to drop off his bag behind a dumpster was the only allowance he made before swinging off again.

 

Peter landed hard against the side of a building and started to climb. It didn't matter what it was, he just saw that it was the tallest in the area. He had to give his spider sense something to work with if he wanted to find Octavius in such a large area, and the best thing for it was a good vantage point. It had the upside, of course, of being very difficult for Octavius to sneak up on him up there. The crashing glass of the windows or the sound of metal on metal would notify him long before Ock got the chance to attack.

 

Peter settled on the edge of the roof, letting his senses expand to the city around him. The hum of traffic down below, the rushing wind against his ears, the blare of televisions and radios and cell phones.

 

He was coming. Octavius was coming. All Peter had to do was wait. He was so  _ tired _ of waiting, but he had to. This would be the last time, he promised himself. Then the wait would be over.

 

He didn't know how long he'd been on that rooftop, but it would have been impossible to miss it when the power shut off.

 

Peter leapt to his feet, eyes casting wildly around the streets below him, searching for any sign of the insane scientist. He paced the perimeter of the roof, anxiety building in his gut, arms aching as he prepared himself for the fight to come.   
  
Tires screeched. People were screaming. Peter leapt forward and threw himself towards what might be the most important confrontation of his life. Peter felt a steely determination settling inside him, spreading outward from his stomach like molten metal. All the fear, all the grief, all the pain of the past months giving him an iron core that he was sure was strong enough to do whatever he needed to do.

 

It was time.

 

Octavius was there, he could see him, now. Racing through the street, crawling over cars. Octavius. Peter could see that goggled face looking up at him. He could see a flash of teeth. Octavius was  _ smiling _ . He was  _ grinning.  _ He was happy. He knew what he had done and he didn't feel a shred of guilt. He was delighted to have hurt Spider-Man the way he had. He was glad he had caused the death of an innocent teenage girl.   
  
Peter latched onto a building, swung to face down, and only a second later launched himself directly towards Octavius.

 

The doctor was shouting something up at him, no doubt engaging in their usual banter, but Peter didn't care. He couldn't even decipher the words over the roar of speed, and then he was amongst those arms.

 

"Spider-Man!" Octavius was shouting, a murderous grin spread over his cheeks. Peter grabbed hold of one arm and used it to swing his body back up, avoiding a second. "You have no idea how badly I've been  _ dying _ to see you again."

 

Peter didn't answer the jab, instead kicking off an arm to launch himself closer to Octavius himself. The man staggered back, startled, and dodged out of his path.   
  
"Quiet this evening, Spider-Man?" There were few lights left to illuminate the confrontation, but Peter could hear the nervousness in his tone. "Or maybe the death of Ms. Stacy has aged you." Peter sprayed a web towards Octavius and managed to hit his chest, hauling himself forward and towards the villain.

 

An arm cut through the webbing, sending him veering off course. "It's about time, if I'm perfectly honest," Octavius sniffed. He sounded nearly unnerved, now. He was trying to goad Peter into speech, the hero realized. He probably wanted to hear that light tone, to know that Peter wasn't going to actually kill him.

 

He would get no such reassurance from Peter.

 

"I've been looking forward to the day when you finally grew out of all that infantile yammering." Peter didn't point out the hypocrisy of the statement, instead letting Octavius chatter into the dead air as Peter swung around behind him, avoiding two jabbing arms on the way.

 

Everything was fast. Time, previously moving so slowly, seemed determined to catch up. As Peter flipped through the air, shooting webs towards Octavius, those metal arms were moving as fast as he was. They managed to snap his anchor line, sending him flying away towards a building with a cry of surprise.

 

Octavius was after him, then, a blurred figure on the dark street illuminated only by the headlights of the cars that had been abandoned with the keys still inside them. The streaks of light made it difficult to see: the brightness made it impossible to adjust to the dark while the illumination remained faint enough outside the beams to obscure details.

 

Peter could only hope that Octavius was at at least as much of a disadvantage. He could take solace, at least, in the fact that he wasn’t the only one wearing dark lenses.

 

Peter landed on his fingers and toes against the glass windows of the building and had to move quickly, because Ock was already clawing his way up the building. Peter turned to scurry up the side, farther away from the street. Although it would be darker, Peter had the advantage the further they were from the ground. Sure, those arms would probably save Octavius from any kind of fatal fall, but his human mind would still drive him to stay safe, clinging to the building, guarding his movements carefully. 

 

Peter was half spider. Or, well, part spider. Honorary part spider, at least. Plus, he had his webbing, so that helped, too. He wasn’t afraid of falling. At least: not  _ very _ afraid.

 

Peter waited, slowing just a little to let Octavius draw closer to him. He could hear the man cackling, down below, and a flash of cold rage went through him, but he remembered himself enough to push it down.

 

Not now, he told himself.  _ Not yet. _

 

Peter could hear the clinking of each metal link along the length of each arm, and the sound was near deafening as he focused hard, waiting for the telltale sign of attack. It came sooner than he expected, his spider-sense warning him to jump. He didn’t bother to second guess it, allowing his fingers and feet to slip, sending him sliding down the glass, straight past the two arms that had jumped up to snag his legs.

 

Octavius let out a shout of dismay, but one of the two metal arms holding him to the building released, sending him in a downward arch that carried him out of the way of Peter’s rapid descent.  _ Dang. _

 

Peter, in his concentration, hadn’t considered the fact that the glass below Octavius had shattered, and before he knew it, he’d slid right off the glass entirely, entering a terrifying, if brief, freefall before managing to sling a web to catch himself. He turned the momentum into an upward swing, letting go in order to swivel in the air, facing Doctor Octopus again.

 

The man was facing out, now, too, lines in his face etched deep enough to display his hatred even in the dark. “Enough is enough, Spider-Man,” He called as one of his arms rapidly extended, catching Peter around one bicep. The teen went to pry the fingers open, but the doctor snarled. “Not this time!” As another arm darted forward in an attempt to skewer him through the chest.

 

Not this time, Peter agreed silently, teeth gritting as he threw his hand out in the way, sticking himself to the closed fingers before they managed to tear through his skin. That had been close, he admitted to himself as he swung his legs up, wrapping them around the second arm for support. It was just in time, because Octavius was shaking both arms, now, trying to rattle him loose.

 

“Let  _ go _ , you pesky little insect,” He hissed, and Peter almost opened his mouth to make a quip back, but then he saw Gwen’s face as she fell into the river and his stoniness returned, that iron core inside him hardening further.

 

His arm was released and Peter unstuck from the second, instead scurrying up the length of the arm, towards Octavius. These arms needed to go, he thought coldly. He had to find a way to shut them down. That harness that Octavius was wearing had to have  _ something _ in it, although he suspected that each arm carried most of its hardware inside itself.

 

“Stay back!” Octavius cried, both free arms arching towards him, but Peter dropped off the limb just in time. A web sprang free of his webshooter to latch onto Ock’s leg, pulling a sharp cry from him. Whether it was pain, fear, or frustration was impossible to tell, but Peter found the sound satisying either way. Maybe that was wrong of him, but he found that he didn’t much care, at the moment.

 

Peter pulled upwards, heaving himself up towards Octavius even as he yanked the scientist down towards him. An arm cut through his line but he didn’t wait to cast another, continuing his upward path. It was almost like climbing a ladder that was falling away from him under every hand as Octavius’s arms shredded through his webbing.

 

But Peter was gaining ground, and Octavius could tell. Even in the dark, Peter could see the arms gathering in a moment before the doctor leapt from the building, practically flying across the street to punch through the glass, disappearing into the dark interior.

 

Okay.

 

Peter swung across the street after him, barrelling blindly into the pitch black building. A trap, obviously, he realized as an arm swung out to strike him firmly across the length of his stomach, swatting him back out the shattered windows he’d just come in. He felt glass tear into his skin and let out a cry of pain, but he was falling and he didn’t have time to focus on that. 

 

It would heal, just like everything else. No time.

 

He slung out his arm and used a web to haul himself back to the building, now several floors lower than where Octavius was lurking. Okay, no problem. He started to scamper back up the glass, undeterred by the crashing he could hear coming from the broken wall.   
  
He poked his head up above the edge of the floor, careful of the jagged glass, and had to duck again as his spidey sense blared and a desk chair flew over his head.

 

“Come inside, Spider-Man,” Ock was challenging him from inside. He sounded so unbearably smug that for an instant Peter saw red, and lost sight of his better judgement.

 

Peter threw himself upwards and into the room, tumbling into a roll that would hopefully throw Octavius off. He must have gotten lucky, because a desk bounced by to his left before falling out the window and down to the street below. Peter hoped that the civilians had evacuated.

 

It was pitch black, away from the window, but Peter could hear the scientist’s barely contained snickering somewhere deeper inside. He was struggling to make out any kind of movement, but there was nothing as he crept forward. He stayed low to the ground, trying to reduce his silhouette against the lighter night sky outside, and his muscles were tense with the anticipation.

 

The back of his head screamed and Peter dodged, but a metal claw snapped shut around his ankle and then he was being whipped around the room, a scream ripping from his throat as he hit walls, ceilings, furniture, the floor.

 

He couldn’t see where Octavius was, he couldn’t tell which way the arm was coming from, he couldn’t get his bearings well enough to shoot a web between bouncing off walls. But he could hear that manic laughter that nearly sent him spiraling into a flashback to the night that Gwen died.

 

No time, he told himself, head fuzzy with panic and pain. No time.

 

Peter curled his body and grabbed onto the metal arm. There— the arm arched off in that direction. He shot a flurry of globby webs, attacking until he heard a shout of dismay.  _ Got him _ . He didn’t know what he’d hit, but he knew that Octavius would only be distracted for seconds, and he needed to make use of them. Peter gripped the curling metal under both hands and bent hard. Harder, harder— a  _ snapping _ sound, or maybe a  _ crack _ , and Peter fell to the ground as Octavius bellowed with rage.

 

Peter followed the sound, and, as he had learned months ago, he was  _ so fast. _

 

He was on Octavius before those arms had a chance to come into play. Peter’s hands landed on the metal harness around Octavius’s waist and he stuck them, his feet gluing firmly to the ground. With one hand he pushed, forming an anchor for the other as he  _ pulled _ .

 

That sound must have been metal screws shredding, he thought with something like fascination, as a plate of steel came off in his hand. Octavius was screaming, and there were two arms pulling at Peter’s legs, now, trying to get him away. Peter never realized how sticky he was, he thought with some amazement as his hand plunged back into the harness and he felt something  _ hot _ .

 

“Ah!” He yanked his hand back and Octavius took the opportunity to seize that arm, holding it away from the inside of the device. Only one arm unaccounted for, Peter thought fiercely.

 

“Nice try, Spider-Man,” He sneered. “This harness is insulated to protect me from the heat, but I think you’ll find that these batteries are  _ much _ too hot for even you to get your sticky little hands on.”

 

“You think so?” Peter hissed, speaking directly to the doctor for the first time in their confrontation. He was barely hanging on, one hand still plastered to the doctor’s harness as his body was held out, parallel to the ground, by those limbs. “I don’t know, I think I can probably manage.” He bent his arm, pulling himself bodily closer to the doctor, and he found that he could vaguely make out the look of horror on the man’s face. The strain on his shoulder was agonizing, but Peter didn’t relent until his forearm was braced along the metal belt, allowing his hand to twist and reach back inside the harness. 

 

His hand closed on the source of the heat and his teeth gritted as it burned into his palm. Otto was shouting, trying hard to pull him away, and the pain was starting to get to him. He could smell smoke already, and a whimper bubbled out of him before he could help it, but as he stuck himself to the nearly burning component, he felt a sickening  _ pop  _ in his shoulder and he lost his concentration.

 

Octavius bellowed, throwing Peter against a wall, and the bundle of heat in his palm came with him. The battery clattered onto the floor, glowing brightly enough, now, to illuminate the room.

  
Destroyed desks, shattered glass, and a furious doctor, arms still coiling in the air. Dismay settled into his stomach. Why hadn’t that worked? Octavius had called it a battery, hadn’t he? Was there more than one? Had that been for nothing?  _ God _ , his arm hurt.

 

But no— the look on Octaviu’s face wasn’t for nothing. He was angry, he was afraid, he was  _ desperate _ . Whatever Peter had managed to grab, it was important.   
  
But his time for thought was over, because Octavius was scurrying at him across the open floor at a startling speed, so Peter scooped the component back up and dove out of the way of the charge, a cry of pain in his throat as he rolled over the injured shoulder. Okay—  _ not _ doing that again, he thought with a grimace, staggering to his feet. 

 

“Return that to me, Spider-Man!” Octavius was demanding, already coming around to chase after him again. Peter sprinted for the window, the frightening green glow from the device lighting his way. “You can’t destroy it! You can’t safely store it! It’s nuclear powered, you fool! Only  _ I  _ can safely contain it!”

 

But his next comments were lost, because Peter had thrown himself out of the window, and he had to hastily shoot a web with his good arm to keep himself from plummeting to the ground below.

 

Backup batteries, Peter realized abruptly. The doctor might be running on backups. Not great news, but based on Octavius’s eagerness to get this one back, maybe they didn’t last long. Peter just needed to wait him out.

 

Hopefully.

 

His feet touched down and the teen released the web, gritting his teeth against the burning pain in the palm of his injured hand where he refused to let go of the battery. He was worried about the injury it would cause, but it didn’t matter. Either he’d win this fight, in which case he could take the device to Mr. Stark, and subsequently receive medical treatment for it and probably be fine in the morning, or he’d lose.   
  
So it wouldn’t be an issue for long, either way.   
  
Octavius crashed to the ground behind him, the sound of clashing metal and an inhuman scream lifting the hairs along his arms and an alarm in the back of his head both.

 

Peter dashed forward, hopping over cars as he attempted to gain some distance, but even better, force the doctor to use his arms as much as possible. He had fewer options, with one hand occupied and more or less out of commission, but running would work as long as his legs did.

 

Oh, gosh, Peter thought with a grimace, he hoped that he hadn’t just jinxed himself. He  _ really _ liked his legs working.

 

His spider sense went off again and Peter dropped low, shivering with horror as an empty car bounced over his head, the alarm beeping for attention. He felt bad for whoever that belonged to. He hoped that New Yorkers knew to get maximum coverage on their vehicles, these days.   
  
“Spider-Man! Return my generator!”

 

A generator. Even better. 

 

“You want it?” Peter demanded, hopping up on top of a sedan. He could hear the quiet chimes from inside warning that the keys were still in the ignition. He hoped that this person was safe. “Catch!” He threw it high into the air, watching the horror on Octavius’s face in the brief moment before the villain turned to climb the nearest building at a breakneck speed, chasing after the device. Peter felt a little queasy, hoping that nuclear powered generators would be fine if they got shaken around a little. Doc Ock wore it on his belt, so it was probably fine, but definitely hard to say for sure.

 

As Octavius approached where the device would begin to fall, Peter threw out a web line to snag it, yanking it back out of his reach, then turned to run in the opposite direction.

 

Okay, yeah,  _ that _ made him mad. 

 

As Peter darted between and behind cars, hearing the sounds of chaos from the pursuing madman behind him, he wondered at the strange numbness in his chest. The fury was gone. The hate was gone. He just wanted to get this  _ done _ .   
  
Peter was faster than Octavius. He was  _ much _ faster. But he was careful not to lose the man. That wasn’t the point of this. He could hear the increasingly frenzied shouts, but then the doctor abruptly turned away from his pursuit, darting back in the opposite direction. This was it. The backups were running down.   
  
Peter gave chase. He threw web after web at Octavius’s retreating form, forcing his arms to use more and more energy to rip through any that managed to land. Eventually the first of the arms drooped, dragging behind the scientist, and Peter could hear the cursing even from where he was.

 

A thrill of triumph even as the doctor turned to face him again, face set into an expression that, illuminated by the green glow in Peter’s numbing hand, gave him chills.

 

“Enough is enough, Spider-Man,” Octavius hissed. “No more games. Return my generator to me and I’ll let you live.”

 

“I don’t think so, doc,” Peter answered, his voice strangely level. “I think the time for a happy ending between us passed the second Gwen Stacy fell off that bridge.”

 

“I suppose that’s true,” Octavius agreed, voice hissing out of him. “Then come, Spider-Man. Do your worst.”

 

Peter lay the generator on the ground and layered several globs of webbing over it. It wouldn’t keep the man at bay, but it should give him enough pause that Peter would be able to stop him if he tried to go for it.   
  
Then he strode forward, head high, back straight, away from the muted light and towards Octavius.   
  
Otto looked momentarily startled, but the snarl returned to his face after just a few steps and he readied himself. Those arms rose menacingly, but if there was one thing that people tended to underestimate, it was Peter’s speed. Even after seeing it before, Octavius wasn’t prepared to counter Peter at his fastest.

 

He grabbed the claws on one of the two fully functional arms and crushed them in both hands, rendering them a useless hunk of metal. Octavius shrieked, staggering back, but Peter was already after the third. Octavius hefted it out of his reach but Peter leapt, sticking his toes to it as he ripped the end link of the arm completely off. 

 

Peter turned to the final arm only to find that it had managed to stab him while he hadn’t been paying attention.

 

He couldn’t tell how far in the arm was, but the radiating agony from his gut was enough that he knew he should be seriously worried. He sucked in a sharp breath, and against his will a reedy exhale that sounded more like an injured animal than something a human would make oozed out of him like the blood that was splashing onto the ground below.

 

Peter slumped, slipping off the third broken arm to droop over the one remaining one. Octavius was laughing, he could hear, but it felt difficult to concentrate. It was hard to breathe, it was hard to think, he didn’t care that Otto was laughing.

 

The arm skewering him shuddered, then dropped to the ground and the laughter abruptly stopped. Peter was still on his feet. He wasn’t sure how, and he sure didn’t  _ want _ to be, but he was standing.   
  
He lifted his head to stare at Octavius and now there was nothing to be found there but pure, unadulterated fear.

 

Peter stepped forward.

 

“S-stay back,” Octavius demanded, taking a hasty step back, swinging the two arms that still retained power in front of him defensively, but the move drained the last of the power from another one. “Stay back, I said!” Peter was coming towards him, still, and that final arm swung towards him like a bludgeon, but Peter caught it with his good hand. It was weak, he noticed, turning to face it. Octavius was trying to pull away, but there was nothing he could do in the face of Peter’s massive strength, even as more blood splashed out of him like an overturned glass.

 

Peter gripped the cold metal in both hands and he twisted, hearing the metal creaking. Wires were snapping inside the casing and Octavius was starting to panic.

 

“You were right, doctor,” Peter murmured, watching the titanium warp under his hands. “Enough is enough.” He grunted, and finally, finally, he twisted the arm off completely, leaving nothing of it but a short stump of dead wires.

 

“No!” Octavius was pleading. “Not my arms, no!”

 

Peter shot him a look in the dark, then turned to the next arm and began to twist it.

 

Octavius bodily tackled him, sending Peter toppling to the ground with a scream of pain. Octavius’s fingers were digging into his stomach wound, his hurt shoulder pressed against the asphalt, and the agony was blinding. Much worse than getting shot, he managed to think underneath the electric buzz of pain.   
  
Peter shoved Octavius off him with his one good arm, the world fuzzy around him as he staggered back to his feet, gasping.

 

“Never again,” He hissed, pushing the doctor back to the ground as the man tried to struggle to his feet under the weight of the titanium arms. “Never again, Octavius. It’s over.”

 

Peter stood over the doctor and planted a foot in the center of his back, forcing him flat on his stomach as Peter took the next arm in his hands and began to twist. The man was pleading under him, weeping, screaming, struggling, but Peter didn’t relent. There wasn’t so much as a flash of pity as he snapped the arm off and let it fall, lifeless, to the ground.

 

As he started on the third, it occurred to him to wonder if Octavius was experiencing pain as he did this. Did the metal arms feel like extensions of his own body? Peter knew that he had some kind of mental control over the things, but he was pretty sure that the nerve ending didn’t translate damage to the arms into pain.

 

Pretty sure. But as pain racked through his body, rippling outward from the wound in his stomach, Peter found that he wasn’t much inclined to care. The doctor would survive this, he was sure.

 

“You’re going back to Ravencroft, doctor,” Peter announced, voice flat and dull. “You’re going to spend the time you need there. Maybe you’ll get better and maybe you won’t. But either way, you’re not going to be my problem anymore.” The arm he’d just detached fell into a loose coil on the ground, and Peter turned to the final arm.

 

“Maybe someday you’ll regain your sanity,” Peter mused aloud, the shrieking of twisting metal sounding nearly as demented as the raving man underneath him. “Maybe someday you’ll remember who you used to be. Maybe someday you’ll regret what happened to Gwen Stacy.”    
  
He had to concentrate to break the fourth arm all the way off. He was tired. He couldn’t see how much blood he’d lost, exactly, but the puddle below him seemed… excessive, to say the least.

 

“But even if you do,” Peter dropped the last arm, staring down at the weeping man lying prone on the ground “I don’t want to hear about it. I never want to hear anything about you for the rest of my life, Dr. Octavius. And if I do…” His foot pressed a little harder against the doctor’s back, but he reigned himself in and pulled away, spraying gobs of webbing over the man to pin him down.   
  
“I don’t know for sure what might happen to you,” Peter admitted in a whisper, his good hand going to cover his stomach, pressing hard as he tried to contain the bleeding. He stared down at the squirming doctor, taking in the pathetic sight one more time before turning away and stumbling over to retrieve the generator.   
  
Peter reached up with his other hand, feeling it tremble, feeling the agony in his shoulder from the movement, and tapped the emergency signal into the comm in his ear. The Avengers would be proud of him, Peter thought with a wry grin, standing guard over the device rather than picking it up again. He looked at his hand and was unsurprised to see that it had burned a hole through his glove and damaged the skin underneath. Great.   
  
The teenager let out a sigh, slumping against a nearby car as he fumbled the tracking device out of his belt, staring at it. There was a small blinking light there that hadn’t been turned on, before. That was good to know, he thought dully, eyelids drooping a little.

 

Okay, Peter admitted to himself, listening to the sound of approaching police sirens. Deadpool was right. This was really close, and he might not have won if he’d tried to fight Octavius without sleeping. Maybe he ought to give the guy a little more leeway. A second shot.

 

Nah.

 

“Spider-Man.”

 

Peter opened his eyes, and there, before him, was his backup. His shoulders slumped with relief as he took in the sight of Captain America, Iron Man, Black Widow, and Hawkeye. His friends.

 

“Hey, guys,” He grinned weakly under his mask, relief washing over him as the lights flickered back on around them. “Thanks for coming.”

 

“What happened to you?” Nat demanded, striding over to pull his hand away from his wound and examine it.

 

“I beat Doc Ock,” Peter answered, flinching as her fingers skirted delicately around the edges of the punctures. “Hey, Mr. Stark,”He pointed at the web, which was still faintly glowing. Most of the fiber seemed to have melted by now. “There’s some kind of nuclear generator under there, from Dr. Octavius’s arms. Can you take care of it?”

 

“Sure, kid,” Mr. Stark agreed. “Leave it to me. But right now, we’ve got to get moving. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

 

“The tower?” Peter’s brow furrowed as his spidey sense tingled vaguely. He looked around, wincing again as Natasha pulled away from him, going to check on his shoulder, next.

 

“Tower’s been compromised,” Clint answered, eyes scanning for trouble in the darkness. “We’ve got a safehouse, though.”

 

“What’s going on at the tower?” Peter asked, brow furrowing. “What about Dr. Banner? And Bucky? And Sam? Are they okay?”

 

“They’re fine,” Cap assured him. “They’re waiting for us. Let’s go.”

 

Peter nodded, letting his weight lean on Natasha as he straightened up.

 

The emergency signal went off in his ear, responding to his call, and Peter froze.

 

His eyes darted around the assembled Avengers, and he realized immediately that none of them reacted.

 

_ None of them. _ How was that possible? They were wearing their comms. He could see them. Peter swallowed hard, then staggered away from Nat, both hands clamping flat over his stomach in response to another gush of blood.

 

“You’re not the Avengers,” He accused, and they blinked owlishly at him for a moment, surprised, then Mr. Stark laughed.

 

“Okay, kid, good one,” He said dryly, holding a hand out. “But we don’t have time for jokes. We’ve got word that someone’s out for revenge, and we need to get you off the street.”

 

“No,” Peter shook his head. “I’m not going with you.”

 

“Son,” Cap murmured, sounding disappointed as he took a step forward. “Be reasonable.”

 

Peter turned and ran. He could hear shouts of alarm, followed by footsteps hastily following, but he didn’t turn to look. It was all he could do to keep running, block after block. He tried a web, once, but quickly dismissed it as an option when his shoulder screamed with pain. Before long, he left the battle zone and found people again, going about their night. Great.

 

With no more energy to direct himself, Peter’s feet automatically carried him forward. At least he could be grateful for that.

 

He was out of breath, gasping as he tried to suck in air through his panic. He could hear the roar of repulsors somewhere above him, and there were shouts somewhere behind. Cap was certainly gaining on him, even if the others couldn’t keep up with his speed. Normally he wouldn’t have a problem getting away, he thought, torn between desperation and envy towards his normal self. The misshapen lump at his shoulder and the agony he’d felt when he’d tried to swing into the air assured him that he had dislocated it: there was no way he could support himself like that. Not if he wanted to maintain any kind of respectable speed.

 

_ God,  _ he wished this city would get some sleep. He would feel much better without all those eyes on him, right now. Spider-Man tended to paint a very noticeable picture, even when he wasn’t dripping a trail of blood behind him, sprinting through the streets of New York: anyone could point his pursuers in his direction right now.

 

He groaned, nearly slamming into a wall as he caught sight of the alley and turned to duck down it. He used his good arm to sling a web to the dark shape behind a trash can, dragging his backpack up to his chest. His bad arm, somewhat more feebly, lifted just enough to shoot another web up towards a high building. Instead of grabbing on, though, he stuck it to his backpack and  _ threw  _ with his good arm, giving the thing as much momentum as he could manage. Please let them follow that long enough for him to get away in the other direction, he thought helplessly. He watched just long enough to see it start to arch upwards before wrenching one of the dumpster lids up and toppling inside, letting it slam shut behind him. 

 

He landed in the bottom, feeling a splash under him. The thing must have been recently emptied, he thought, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to hear over the hammering of his own heart. Peter’s breath was loud and ragged in his ears, so he clamped both hands over his mouth, trying to stifle the sound.

 

Lying in trash juice in a dark dumpster, alone, in more pain than he could ever remember being in. Yeah, that sounded about right, he admitted with a grimace. 

 

Then he heard heavy footsteps and realized that Captain America had caught up with him. He stopped breathing entirely, body shuddering. Please let this work, he begged silently. Please let this work. He couldn’t bear it if they caught him. If they took away the last thing he had.

 

The footsteps slowed to a stop right outside his hiding place and Peter managed to stifle a groan before it emerged. If he listened, he could hear Cap talking.

 

“The blood trail ends here,” the soldier was saying, voice tense. “He must have hit the sky. Stark?” A long moment of silence. “See if you can find a trail up there. Clint. Anything?” More quiet as the captain apparently listened to someone speaking over their comms system. “A backpack?” He repeated, sounding displeased. “Take it. Maybe there’s something we can learn there.”

 

Peter opened his eyes, fear coiling in the pit of his stomach. How had everything gone so badly, he wondered, trying to reconcile his current state with his memory of himself from just a few months ago.

 

“Keep looking,” he heard, but the sound was muffled, now, and his vision swam as his eyes shut and he thought of

 

September.

 

But that was then, Peter admitted to himself. Ages ago, a different era altogether. This was nothing like that time and he had bigger things to worry about than the way Gwen Stacy’s hair flowed around her head.

 

Peter let out a long, shuddering breath and listened for sound outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. WHAT WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR. THE RETURN OF THE VERY FIRST SCENE, THIS TIME WITH CONTEXT.
> 
> Hope yall liked that.
> 
> Join my discord! https://discord.gg/YDgxKKp There you'll get extras (sometimes), early access to chapters (maybe) and fun bants with me and other people who read this fic! (If this link expires, hmu in the comments and I'll get you a new one)
> 
> Chapter 13 is almost done, btw


	13. The Neverending Month (Part 5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April is coming to an end.

**April**

 

Peter waited for the sound of footsteps to fade and for the repulsors overhead to quiet before bursting out of the dumpster. One hand pressed to his wound, the other gripping his shoulder, Peter sprinted in the opposite direction of the pursuing Avengers.

 

Or-- not Avengers. Whoever they were. Peter wasn't sold on their true identities. He swallowed hard, panting through the spandex of his mask as his bloody hand dropped a little further down to where Deadpool's phone sat, clipped to his belt. He should call for help, he realized. He should call... someone. The Avengers. The police.  _ Anyone. _

 

But he didn't have the numbers for the Avengers, and he certainly didn't have time to google the number for the tower and hope he would get someone willing to transfer him in. And the police... he couldn't get them involved in this. He didn't know whether the people trying to catch him had the same powers as his friends or not, but it wouldn't be safe to try and rule it out. After all, Iron Man seemed to have a working suit, and Cap had been nearly as fast as he was. It would be much better to assume the worst: that way it would be harder to be taken by surprise.

 

And he was not about to subject the police to the brunt force of the Avenger's potential powers. He didn't want anyone else caught in the crossfire. He thought of Mrs. Stacy, her daughter lost, and then he thought of Captain Stacy, who might respond to the teenager calling for help in downtown Manhattan. Even if it wasn't him, it would be someone in the same situation-- if they died, then someone would miss them. Someone would lose a loved one because of Peter.

 

No, he wouldn't call them, either.

 

There was one person he could try and contact, he supposed. He couldn't trust the Chameleon, obviously, but he might know something about the false Avengers. After all: imposters were kind of his ballfield.

 

Peter fumbled the phone up and jammed the unknown number, sticking the phone to his ear over the mask as he jogged. The phone was answered on the second ring.

 

"Peter," There was that same voice, still soft, still sweet. It was disconcerting how disarming it was. Peter had to wonder if it was his real voice, or one engineered to have this kind of effect on him. "I'm glad to hear from you. Have you found Dr. Octavius?"

 

"I found him, alright," Peter was wheezing. The pain in his stomach was agonizing. He had to get off the street. But where could he go? He was a long way from the area he knew well. Not that he had anywhere to go there, either. He didn't even have his clothes anymore: they had been in the backpack he'd used as a diversion, so he couldn't hide out as Peter Parker. "It's finished."   
  


 

"You killed him?"

 

"No," Peter's voice was sharp. "But he's done. He's beat. He won't be coming back. But that's not what I called you about."

 

"Oh?"

 

"Do you have anything to do with the Avengers running around Manhattan after me right now?"

 

"Avengers? I have very little contact with them, I'm afraid. Most people that tend to hire me don't usually appreciate a close relationship with such high-profile do-gooders."

 

Peter couldn't help but wonder why the Chameleon was associating with him, but he let it go for the moment.

 

"They're not the real Avengers," Peter gasped. He heard a shout behind him and sucked in a sharp breath, ducking down an alley to cut across to what looked like a busier street. Maybe he could lose them there. "They're-- I don't know. They're  _ not real _ ."

 

"Ah, yes," The Chameleon murmured into the phone. "They might be the result of the doctor's... project."

 

"What project?" Peter demanded, breaths harsh against the receiver of the phone.  "What has he done?"

 

"I don't know much about it, myself," The Chameleon deferred, infuriatingly, but to Peter's relief, he continued. "I do know that he's been working with a Dr. Miles Warren for several months now on a secret project that I have been allowed next to no access to. You may have noticed some of the side effects of their endeavors before now. Very recently, in fact. I'm surprised he managed to yield results so quickly after emergence."

 

"What does that mean?" Peter groaned, baffled as he pulled a hard right, dodging in and out of a bustling crowd. There were a lot of bars and clubs in this part of the city, Peter remembered vaguely, but the Chameleon responded, distracting him.

 

"The blackouts, Peter," His voice was patient, like he was explaining to a child. Which, Peter reluctantly admitted, he was.

 

"Those were Octavius," Peter breathed, feeling a cold pit settling into his stomach. In conjunction with the stab wounds there, it was even less pleasant than normal.

 

"That's right," The Chameleon agreed softly. "Warren is an accomplished biochemist: very brilliant. If he and Octavius were working together, it's possible that they were able to create some kind of false Avengers, although I'm not sure exactly what form that would take. Clones, perhaps."

 

"Clones," Peter repeated, dismayed as he took another sharp turn, trying to lose his pursuers. "That's  _ insane _ . Clones-- you've got to be kidding me!"

 

"I can't say for sure," The Chameleon answered apologetically. "But it seems possible, certainly."

 

"Oh, god," Peter glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the Black Widow vault over a railing that he'd dodged around. Oh, no. "I don't know what to do! What do I do?"

 

"Can you fight them off?"

 

"I'm hurt," Peter admitted reluctantly, fingers tightening over the oozing, burning wounds. "I don't think I can beat them, like this."

 

"Do you have somewhere you can hide?"

 

"No."

 

There was a long, pregnant pause over the line before the Chameleon spoke again. "Come to me. I'll hide you." He rattled off a street address, but Peter was so shaken that he missed it.

 

"What?" He gasped.

 

"I can protect you," The Chameleon urged him, and a shiver went through Peter's body. Was this really a good idea? Where else could he go? What else could he do? The mystery man had Avengers chasing him, and if they caught him... either he would fall in line, or he might end up dead, with a clone of  _ himself _ running around out there.

 

"Okay," Peter agreed, throat tight. "Where are you?"

 

"Three-Four-Seven, Fifth Avenue," The Chameleon repeated. "In Manhattan."

 

"Okay," Peter nodded, the phone bobbing with his head. He could hear fast footsteps behind him, so he forced himself to speed up, despite the way it pained him. "I'm coming."

 

"Alright, Peter," The Chameleon agreed, his soothing voice a balm to Peter's panic despite himself. "I'll see you soon."

 

The phone dropped and Peter caught it in one blood-slicked hand, nearly dropping it before he managed to catch it with sticky fingertips and reattach it to his belt.

 

He rounded a corner and slammed into someone, sending them both sprawling with a pair of startled yelps.

 

Peter lie groaning on the ground, clutching his body as pain rolled through him in waves. Get up, he told himself. Get  _ up _ ! They were coming, they were going to catch him, he had to get  _ up _ !

 

He lifted his head, pushing against the ground with his good arm with a groan as he propped himself up. As he did, he caught sight of the person he'd bumped into, and he realized that he recognized her. A classmate of his, although he didn't know her very well. Jessica, he remembered. Her name was Jessica.

 

She was looking at him, too, shock written all over her face. "Spider-Man," She exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. Peter was slower to copy. "It's you!"

 

"Run," Peter urged her, staggering forward to place himself between where a superpowered assailant was sure to appear at any moment.

 

"You're hurt," She said, but Peter didn't have time to pay her more attention before Captain America rounded the corner. Peter's arms jumped up reflexively into a ready position, but Cap stopped, hands held out appeasingly.

 

"Spider-Man," He said, voice rough. "Stop running. We won't hurt you. Just come with us."

 

"Not likely," Peter spat, jumping forward to throw a punch. It was sloppy; exhaustion and blood-loss were getting to him, now, and the fraud hero had no difficulty blocking the wide-swung fist. But as Cap reached out to grab him, suddenly he was yanked backwards, out of the way. He managed to keep his feet, so he didn't miss the way Jessica managed to plant a kick right in the center of the hulking man's stomach. It would have been an effective move on anyone else, he thought regretfully, right before the move launched Cap backwards, right out of the alley and into the street.

 

Peter stared in shock, but Jessica had already run back to him, eyes wild under that dark hair of hers.

 

"Don't freak out," she urged, right before scooping him up, one arm behind his shoulders and one under his knees.

 

She was strong, he realized, his head spinning dizzily. She was strong enough to kick Cap away from them. Peter looked down at the ground, trying to gain a sense of balance, but it seemed to fall away as he stared at him. He closed his eyes tightly, afraid that he would throw up.

 

"I said don't freak out," Jessica complained, her voice stressed, and Peter opened his eyes slowly.

 

"I'm not freaking out," He argued, but his good arm went tightly around her neck. Holy crap, he thought, staring at the night sky. The ground actually  _ had _ fallen away from them. They were  _ flying _ . He looked down at the city, and was shocked to see that they were even higher up than he normally swang. "We're-- you're--"

 

"I know," Jessica cut him off crossly, but she sounded self-conscious. "We're flying. Yeah, I can do that. Just... don't tell anybody."

 

"I won't," Peter agreed, dumbfounded. "Uh-- where are we going?"

 

"To my place," Jessica answered, that uncertain note still lingering in her voice. "Unless you have somewhere better to hide out from Big, Blonde, and Beautiful."

 

"No-- no, that's fine. Thank you."

 

"Sure," They lapsed into silence as Jessica flew--  _ flew! _ \-- them over the city into Queens. Farther from the Chameleon, Peter realized, but maybe that was a good thing. Before he knew it, they were settling down onto a fire escape outside a window. It looked nothing like it, but it sent a pang of longing through him for Gwen. Jessica led the way inside and Peter followed, shaking now.   
  


 

"Okay-- okay, we've got to get you out of that suit so we can bandage..." Her hand waved indiscriminately towards his abdomen. "That."

 

"I..." Peter hesitated, fingers clenching into the soaked fabric at his stomach.

 

"I won't make it weird," Jessica promised, grimacing. "I mean, I'll try not to." Peter hesitated, then nodded once.

 

"But I'm not taking the mask off," he warned her, and was met with rolled eyes and crossed arms.

 

"I already know who you are, Peter," She challenged, and Peter stiffened immediately.

 

"What?" How? How could she possibly know? He'd been  _ so careful _ !

 

"You're so obvious about it," She scoffed. "Always disappearing from class at the same time Spider-Man appears, showing up to school hurt in the same ways as Spider-Man, leaving your backpack  _ all over town _ ," Peter interrupted her.

 

"Jessica, have you been stalking me?" He demanded, hands both fisting, causing him to wince.

 

"Hardly," she drawled. "Like I said, you've been super obvious. I'm surprised that more people haven't picked up on it. Talk about New York's worst kept secret."

 

"Nobody knew," Peter argued, scowling, and Jessica's eyes rolled a second time. Rude.

 

"Sure, Peter," She agreed flatly. "Okay, well, first off all, we need to set your shoulder."

 

Peter blanched under his mask. "Do you... know how to do that?"

 

"Definitely," Jessica answered firmly. There was nothing to imply that she was lying, but he still didn't trust that she was telling the truth. "Don't be a baby, Parker. Sit on the bed and I'll have it right for you in no time." Peter stared at her, taking in her expression and body language, and had to assume that she would force him to if he didn't voluntarily.   
  
Peter sheepishly sat on the end of the bed and Jessica climbed up behind him, sitting on her knees as one hand settled on his back, just below his neck, and the other gingerly rested on the injured shoulder.

 

"Ready?" She prompted him, and he gave a brisk nod. "On the count of three. One..." She tugged sharply on his shoulder and Peter yelped as it jerked back into the socket.

 

"That wasn't three," Peter complained, hand jumping up to grip at his shoulder. It ached terribly, but it felt  _ way _ better than it had moments before.

 

"No kidding, genius," Jessica snorted. "Now, do you have it in you to take a shower? Because we need to get that blood off of you, and it would really be best if we could get some of that teenage-boy stink off, too."

 

"I don't stink," Peter objected, but he probably did. There wasn't much worse than the smell of sweaty spandex, and he'd been wearing this suit for four days.

 

"Whatever," Jessica clambered off the bed, jostling Peter painfully in the process, but he didn't complain. She stalked across the bedroom to her dresser, fetching out sweatpants and a large tee advertising a band he didn't know. "You can put these on when you get out. Hurry up. We're the only ones here, right now, so it should be fine, but we need to get you bandaged up. Bathroom's across the hall."

 

Peter sheepishly accepted the clothes and retreated across the hall into the bathroom.   
  
The hot water made his head spin, so he washed in cold, instead, using the chill to help himself stay awake and alert. He didn't know how much blood he'd lost, but the amount of red seeping off the wadded up suit in the bottom of the tub was far from comforting as he scrubbed some of Jessica's body wash under his arms. He tried to focus on the revelation about Jessica rather than his own pain and fear. He hadn't realized any of his classmates had superpowers, he told himself to distract from the fact that there were Avengers hunting for him in the city. He hadn't even considered the possibility.

 

As Peter climbed out of the shower, feeling a little better despite the soapy burn of his stomach, he wondered if he should look in the mirror or not. He knew what he would see already: too skinny, hair too long, dark bruises under his eyes. His stomach wasn’t bleeding with as much vigor as it had been earlier, but it was mottled with bruises that had yet to begin to fade. Peter could probably sleep most of this off, he reasoned, but it was still terrifying to see the punctures in his skin. He couldn’t bring himself to look down for long.

 

He donned the borrowed clothes without so much as a glance at the mirror, instead crossing the hall back into Jessica’s bedroom.

 

She was sitting at a desk, scrolling through a webpage on a beaten laptop. Peter leaned carefully against the back of her chair, reading over her shoulder.

 

“Something tells me you haven’t done this before,” He quipped as he scanned the page on  _ How to Treat a Stab Wound. _

 

“Have you?” Jessica challenged, not looking away from the screen. “Don’t answer that. I’m not sure I want to know.”

 

“Okay,” Peter relented. “But wikihow? Wikihow is trash. Why are you trying to get  _ their _ advice?”

 

“What, would you rather WebMD?” Jessica snorted. “Wikihow is  _ fine _ . Either way I’m going to be treating a stab wound to the  _ gut _ without any kind of medical degree.”

 

“Three stab wounds,” Peter corrected her, and she shot him a disgusted look. “But hey, don’t worry about trying to stitch it up or anything. I have super healing.” She hadn’t looked away from him yet, and he realized that he wasn’t wearing his mask for the first time this evening. She was probably reading too much into that. “I’ll be fine in the morning. Really if I could just like, put something on it to stop the bleeding and then get some sleep, I’ll be good to go.”

 

“Well, you can sleep here,” Jessica volunteered, reluctantly shutting the window on the computer. “But I’m not sure I have superhero-caliber bandages.”

 

“Band-aids probably aren’t going to cut it,” Peter agreed, one hand pressing gingerly to his stomach.

 

“We could do that movie thing where we just use like, a strip of whatever cloth we’ve got lying around, but I don’t really want to go ripping up my sheets. I think the Joneses would be pretty pissed.”

 

“The Joneses?” Peter prompted, stepping back as Jessica stood, shooting a contemplative glance towards the bathroom.

 

“My adoptive parents,” Jessica answered vacantly, still staring out the open door. “I have an idea, but you’re going to have to not be a jackass about it.” Peter blinked at her, then raised both hands appeasingly.

 

“No jackassery here,” Peter agreed, brows furrowed as he wondered what she had in mind. “I just want to not bleed all over your shirt, if I can help it.”

 

“I want you to not bleed on my shirt, too,” Jessica agreed, striding into the bathroom, leaving Peter to sit awkwardly on the edge of the bed again. She returned a moment later, a small, crinkling package in one hand as she crossed to the desk, cheeks red, and brusquely pulled a role of scotch tape out of a drawer. “Okay,” She came to stand in front of him, then, unwrapping what turned out to be a menstrual pad.

 

That was… kind of weird, but kind of brilliant, too.

 

“Hold your shirt out of the way,” Jessica instructed, and Peter didn’t object, holding the thin fabric up and out of the way as she pressed the absorbent side against his abs, effectively covering the whole area. “And hold that there for a sec.” Peter obeyed, and within moments, Jessica had the pad taped firmly in place, with more strips across the back to prevent it sticking to his shirt. “There,” Jessica straightened back up, the pink tint in her cheeks lingering. “Just… keep an eye on it, I guess? If you start to leak, I’ve got more, obviously. It’s sanitary.”

 

“Thanks, Jess,” Peter sighed with some relief, letting the tee fall back down over his stomach. 

 

“Sure.” The girl sat down next to him, eyeing him critically. “So where have you been, Parker?”

 

He really should have seen this line of questioning coming, but his stomach curled with dread.

 

“My aunt died in January,” Peter said, his voice sounding strangely mechanical. “The last member of my family. Well, not exactly, I guess— I have one remaining relative in Nebraska. They wanted to send me out there to live with him, but… I couldn’t leave New York. I wasn’t willing to. Everything I knew was here. So I just kind of… ran away, I guess.”

 

“And you’ve been homeless since January?” Jessica demanded, scowling, and Peter hastened to correct her.

 

“No— I lived with,” His voice broke and for a moment he couldn’t speak. Jessica’s face cleared with understanding.

 

“You were living with Gwen Stacy.” He nodded, and Jessica’s frown returned, although this time with marginally more concern than annoyance. “But she died a couple days ago.” He nodded again, eyes dropping to the carpeted floor. “Shit, man. I’m really sorry. Where are you staying now?”

 

“Nowhere,” Peter shrugged. “To be honest with you, I’ve been pretty much on the go since… it happened. I was chasing Doc Ock the whole time.”

 

“I heard that you were fighting him,” Jessica nodded. “You beat him?”

 

“I beat him.” Peter shot her a look. “What were you doing in Manhattan on a school night?” Jessica rolled her eyes.

 

“I was there with the ‘rents,” She explained. “But it was pretty lame, so I bailed. Ran into you a few minutes later.”

 

“I never knew you were adopted,” Peter confessed, and Jessica shrugged one shoulder.

 

“It’s pretty recent,” She replied, and he recognized that distant tone from his own voice. “My family, my birth family, I mean— there was an accident. Last year. The Joneses snapped me up out of foster care. Who knows why.”

 

“Oh,” Peter’s hands clenched in his lap and he swallowed. “I’m really sorry, Jessica. I never realized. I remember that your last name used to be Campbell, but I guess I just assumed your mom had gotten remarried or something, I don’t know.”

 

Jessica shrugged. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. “Something we have in common, I guess. Tragic tales who narrowly avoided foster care.”

 

“I guess so,” Peter looked down at his hands. “Not the only thing we have in common.”

 

“The powers?” Jessica guessed with a snort, head tipping back. “Yeah. I guess so.”

 

“Can I ask?”

 

“The accident,” Jessica responded without hesitation. “It was a car crash. The truck that we hit had some kind of chemical in it. The rest of my family died, but I survived, and it did something to me. Now I’m… strong. Really strong. And I can fly.”

 

“That’s amazing,” Peter looked at her, then, taking in her hunched shoulders and downcast gaze. “But I guess you aren’t happy about it.”

 

“I never thought I’d say it,” Jessica scoffed, her voice sounding nearly as jagged as his. “We fought all the time. But I would give up powers in an instant if it meant going back and fixing things.”

 

“I know what you mean.”

 

“You, too?”

 

“Me, too.”

 

Quiet fell between them for a moment.

 

“How’d you get yours?”

 

“Bitten by a radioactive spider.”

 

Another few beats of silence, then a huff of laughter from Jessica.

 

“Dude, that is so  _ lame _ . Bitten by a spider?”

 

Peter had to grin, then. “Hey,” he objected. “It was  _ radioactive _ . A  _ radioactive _ spider, Jessica. And I’ll have you know it was actually pretty hardcore, because I snuck into Oscorp’s labs illegally and got bitten by their experimental spiders.”

 

“Hardcore,” Jessica agreed with a scoff. “Getting superpowers after getting a bug bite while snooping around. I kind of like that, actually. I wish I’d gotten my powers that way.”

 

“Right? Definitely not the worst origin story out there,” Peter shrugged. “At least I’m not an Iron Man type.”

 

“Or Winter Soldier,” Jessica volunteered.

 

“He doesn’t like to be called that,” Peter corrected her. “He likes Bucky.”

 

“Seriously? Bucky?” Jessica finally shot another look his way. “You’re on nickname basis with the Winter Soldier?”

 

“Ex-Winter Soldier.”

 

“Ex-Winter Soldier, yeah. Still. That’s  _ weird _ , dude. My classmate is on nickname basis with the Avengers.”

 

Peter’s lips tipped up a little bit, despite himself. “I get to call Black Widow  _ Nat _ .”

 

“No shit?” Jessica looked almost impressed, then.

 

“Although I still call Iron Man  _ Mr. Stark, _ ” Peter grinned at the disappointed look on her face before continuing. “Mostly because he doesn’t want me to, at this point.” The expression shifted into one of amusement as she barked a laugh.

 

“That’s pretty good,” She was staring at him and Peter realized he was yawning. “You tired?”

 

“A little,” he admitted, realizing that he had probably only slept a few hours earlier.

 

“Okay,” Jessica stood, gesturing to the bed. “Well, you can sleep here. I’d better get back to Manhattan before the Joneses realize I’m missing and have a total meltdown. I’ll lock the door, so no one will come in. When we come home, just chill out, I can get the lock open from the outside, but my folks wouldn’t try it or anything, so don’t worry about that.”

 

“Okay,” Peter agreed, not bothering to argue. He’d been handed a gift here, a way to finally catch his breath after the agonizing search for Octavius followed by the terrifying flight from the imposter Avengers. He would need to figure out where to go in the morning, but that was a problem for future Peter. Present Peter was tired out of his mind, and now that he was allowing himself to relax, his brain was fuzzing out and his eyes were beginning to droop.

 

“Geeze, man,” Jessica snorted, shaking her head. “Get some sleep, you’re pitiful to even  _ look  _ at.” She crossed the room to shut the bedroom door, pressing the lock before flicking the lights off.

 

“Thanks, Jessica,” Peter carefully shifted more fully onto the bed, slipping under the blankets. It felt so good to lie in a bed again. He was getting her pillow wet, he realized, hair still damp from his shower, but despite the faint sense of guilt, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. Exhaustion was washing over him in a heavy wave, and Jessica was already climbing back out the window.

 

“Sleep well, Spider-boy,” She shut the window behind herself and Peter fell asleep. He didn’t even dream.

 

By the time he woke again, it was light outside, and Jessica was gone. He sat up blearily in the bed, one hand rubbing at his eyes. He felt rested, he realized, for the first time in a long time. What time was it?   
  
Peter found his suit, dry, as well as his belt, web shooters, and Deadpool’s phone on the desk next to Jessica’s computer, and felt a flash of relief. He’d left them in the bathroom, he realized, but she must have brought them in before anyone could see. He wondered when she’d found the time to dry the suit.

 

He picked up Deadpool’s phone and turned on the screen. The battery was running low, he noticed first, then noticed that it was almost three in the afternoon. That explained why it felt like he’d slept for a year, he thought with some amusement.

 

It was amazing what a full night’s rest could do for one’s temperament.

 

Peter changed back into his suit, stuffing the borrowed pajamas into a laundry basket in the corner. In the process, he wadded up the makeshift bandage and threw it away, delighted to find that his stomach was almost completely healed, with only three circles of shiny new skin to mark that anything had happened at all.

 

Peter checked Deadpool’s phone again and found several missed calls. One from a contact flatteringly named ‘Weasel’, one from a ‘Hydra Bob’, and three from ‘Al’ with a sunglasses emoji next to it. There were texts, too, and as he’d expected, there was one from an unknown number.

 

**Unknown Number: Is everything alright, Peter?**

 

Peter grimaced. He wasn’t sure what the etiquette demanded, here. What did one do when they stood up a maybe-enemy, maybe-ally in a life or death gotta-hide-or-die situation? Should he have called? Should he text back? It was a weird situation, to say the least.

 

The problem solved itself as the phone began to vibrate in his hand, the screen announcing it to be, unsurprisingly, Unknown Number. Peter answered the phone and brought it to his ear.

 

“Hello?” Peter grimaced against the mouthpiece, not sure what the Chameleon would have to say to him.

 

“Spidey,” The voice was not at  _ all _ what he had expected. A long, drawn-out whine, combined with that nickname…

 

“Deadpool,” Peter sighed, running a hand over his face. “Why are you calling me?”

 

“I need my phone back,” Deadpool simpered from the other end of the call. “It’s got all my stuff in it. My phone numbers, my Candy Crush, my photos— oh, god, Spidey, don’t look at the photos, they are not for baby eyes.”

 

Peter blanched and resolved not to open the gallery if it  _ killed him _ .

 

“Sorry,” Peter frowned into the receiver. “But I need to borrow it. I don’t have a phone these days and… I need to be able to get in contact with the Chameleon.”

 

"But I have people I need to keep in contact with, too," Deadpool griped. "Has anybody called me? Has anybody texted?"

 

"A couple people," Peter frowned, somewhat guiltily. "Look, I just... really need to hang onto this for the time being, okay? I'll give it back, I promise. But I need to talk to the Chameleon. He knows stuff."

 

"I know stuff," Deadpool sniffed primly. "I can help better than he can. If you recall, I'm the one who actually rescued you from the Avengers."

 

"And then webbed me to a roof," Peter shot back. "I think I'll take my chances with the Chameleon. Thanks anyway."

 

"But  _ Spidey-- _ "

 

"I've got stuff to do. Bye, Deadpool."

 

"But--" Peter hung up the phone without waiting for further objections. He knew that it wasn't really right of him to keep it, but he really needed to borrow it. He'd keep it safe, and once he didn't need it anymore, he'd give it back.    
  
The phone was ringing again. Unknown caller. Peter rolled his eyes and answered.

 

"Deadpool, knock it off. I'll give it back when I can, okay?"

 

"Peter,"

 

"Oh," Peter winced, embarrassed. "Chameleon. It's you."

 

"It's me," The man agreed. "I'm glad to hear that you're alright. I was concerned when you never showed up last night."

 

"I know, I'm sorry," Peter felt contrite, despite himself. "I got... sidetracked, I guess. I ran into someone I knew, and she helped me get away. But hey, on the bright side, I'm all healed up, now."

 

"Good," There was a sigh of relief against Peter's ear. "But I'm afraid it's not a good time for congratulations. I believe that you're still being hunted."

 

Peter sobered. "Yeah, I kind of thought that that might be the case. What's going on out there?"

 

"There are two sets of Avengers in New York City," The Chameleon told him, a grimace in his tone. "Although it doesn't appear that they've run into each other, yet."

 

"Probably for the best," Peter admitted, and the Chameleon hummed with agreement.

 

"What is your plan, Peter?"

 

"I don't know," Peter admitted. "I would try and get to Avenger's Tower, but if the Avengers aren't there, that's not much safer than anywhere else."

 

"It's not safe there," The Chameleon murmured. "There would be no way to tell if the Avengers were the real ones or the clones. It would probably be best just to avoid them altogether."

 

Peter fell silent for a few moments. He didn't have anywhere else to go. He couldn't hang around Jessica's place forever: he was sure to get her busted. Or killed. One of the two.

 

That was a problem, he realized. Anywhere he went, he'd be drawing danger. He couldn't be trusted in the lives of normal people.

 

"Maybe I'll go after the mystery man," Peter mused aloud. "Maybe if I can take him down, the Avengers will get off my back."

 

"Unwise," The Chameleon told him bluntly. "No doubt the imposters have eyes on his whereabouts, one way or another, and approaching might bring all of them down on top of your head. Not to mention any other guards that may be in his employ. I'm sure he has plenty of tricks up his sleeve for if you ever do manage to track him down."

 

"Can't you get me close to him?" Peter prompted hopefully, and the amusement in the Chameleon's tone when next he spoke was something of a letdown.

 

"Not quite, Peter. I'm sorry, but my employer likes to keep to himself. He's a very... paranoid man. He has not allowed me to see him face to face." He chuckled dryly. "It's not uncommon in my line of work, dear Peter. Most people don't much care for spies lurking around their private business."

 

Peter thought of Natasha and grimaced, humor in the expression. "Okay, that's a fair point. Spies can be... tricky."

 

"To say the least," The Chameleon responded, sounding like he was smiling. "Now, Peter, we should get back to business. You need a plan."

 

"I know," Peter agreed with a sigh. "But I just... don't know what to do."

 

"I know you can think of something," The Chameleon urged. "You just have to apply yourself, Peter. You're a very intelligent young man. You know the Avengers well: their strengths and weaknesses, how they work together, the methods they may use to try and track you down. How can you avoid them?"

 

"I have to go somewhere they wouldn't think to find me," Peter said slowly. "I shouldn't be Spider-Man, if I can help it, but the Avengers are on the lookout for Peter Parker, too, so that's not exactly an ideal solution."

 

"There are far more teenagers walking around in New York than there are red-clad superheroes swinging around on webs," The spy advised him thoughtfully. "Although they've seen your face, you're significantly more likely to blend in without a mask."

 

"I guess so," Peter agreed, but his attention was distracted as the front door of the apartment opened. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I think I have a plan. But I have to go."

 

"Be safe, Peter," The Chameleon said, and Peter nodded fruitlessly before hanging up the phone. He listened hard, hearing footsteps coming down the hall. Snagging his things off the desk, Peter ducked into the closet, closing it soundlessly behind him just before the bedroom door opened.

 

The footsteps came further inside, then stopped, and Peter shut his eyes.

 

"Peter, I know you're still here," The teen let out a huff of relief as he recognized Jessica’s voice. The panic had been for nothing. Better safe than sorry, he thought as she shut the door behind herself. “The window’s still locked.”

 

“I could have gone out the front door,” Peter objected as he pushed the door back open and stepped out into the bedroom again.

 

“Except that was locked, too,” She pointed out. “And you don’t have a key.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Peter waved a hand at her. “I get it. I’m about to leave anyway. Sorry for hogging your bed all night, I really didn’t think that I’d be sticking around for that long.”

 

“It’s fine,” Jessica shrugged at him, dropping her bag in the middle of the floor. Peter’s eyes followed it. “I just slept on the couch. No big deal.”

 

“Hey,” Peter practically cut her off, pointing at her backpack. “Do you maybe have an extra one of those that I could borrow?”

 

Jessica raised her eyebrows at him, then rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you tell me? You were the one snooping around in my closet.” She passed him, shouldering him lightly out of the way of the closet as she reached inside to snag a somewhat worn-down looking bag from the floor.

 

“I wasn’t snooping,” Peter objected, frowning. “I was hiding.”

 

“Whatever, Parker,” Jessica snorted. “So how’s your gut doing? Better?”

 

“Better,” Peter agreed, accepting the bag from her. “Thanks for your help, seriously. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t run into you last night.”

 

“Save the sap,” Jessica advised, looking over him. “So what do you need the bag for?”

 

“I need to hide my suit,” Peter hefted the folded clothes in his arm. “I need to look like a normal teenager if I don’t want to get hauled in by the Avengers.” He grimaced. “Although, they’re after Peter Parker, too, not just Spider-Man, so it’s not exactly safe either way.”

 

“What are the Avengers after Peter Parker for?” Jessica sat on the edge of the bed, visibly perplexed.

 

“I’m not exactly sure,” Peter admitted. “I think that they’re trying to protect me. Probably from Doc Ock, if they heard that he killed— if they heard about Gwen.” He frowned, dumping his stuff on the bed in order to start packing the backpack. Boots, suit, gloves, belt and mask in the bottom. The comm went back into his ear, and the webshooters on his wrists. He frowned down at them, then shot Jessica a pleading look. “Can I maybe borrow a long sleeve shirt, too? A hoodie or something? I promise I’ll get it back to you.”

 

“It’s May, Parker,” Jessica scolded him. “You’re going to burn alive.”

 

“I don’t want to get caught without my webshooters,” Peter said with a shrug. “And I can’t just have them sitting out in the open like this. It’s too obvious.”

 

“Whatever,” She huffed, standing and going back to the closet. The hoodie was balled up and tossed at his face, but Peter caught it before it connected, feeling a tickle of amusement that, once recognized, sent a shot of guilt through him.

 

“Thank you,” He tugged it on over his head, swallowing, and by the time he had it on, Jessica was thrusting a pair of tennis shoes into his hands.

 

“You probably shouldn’t go walking around barefoot,” She told him dryly, and he looked down at his toes against the carpet.

 

“Oh. Good point.” He sat down and took the pair of socks Jessica offered him, glancing up at her as he pulled them on. “I can’t thank you enough for everything, Jessica,” He said gratefully.

 

“Where are you going to go?”

 

Peter blanched, looking back down as he jammed one socked foot into a shoe. Mercifully, they fit okay. “I’m not sure.”

 

“You could stay here,” Jessica offered, sounding somewhat exasperated, and Peter’s heart froze over in his chest.

 

“No,” The word came out harsher than he intended, and Peter winced, forcing himself to soften his voice. “Thank you, Jess. But I can’t.”

 

“Where else do you have to go?” Jessica demanded, her voice even harder than his had been. “Can’t you just stay put? Lay low, let this blow over.”

 

“No.” Peter tied the second shoe, trying to breathe slowly, keep himself from launching into a panic attack. “It’s not safe. I shouldn’t have even stayed here last night, but I guess I was desperate.”

 

“Oh, don’t pull that shit with me,” Jessica crossed her arms. “What, you think I can’t take care of myself? If you recall, I saved your ass last night. From Captain America, I might add.”

 

“I know,” Peter’s shoulders tightened. “But— I just— I can’t.”

 

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” Jessica asked sarcastically, but there was a hint of hurt in her tone. “You don’t like me? Well don’t worry, it’s not like that. I’m just trying to help you out.”

 

“You’ve helped plenty,” Peter objected. “And it’s not that I don’t like you. I just... I want you to be safe.”

 

“I can take care of myself,” Jessica said again, and Peter’s eyes flashed up to hers. Some of the panic and anger he was feeling must have been there, because she looked momentarily taken aback.

 

“Maybe you can,” He said sharply. “Maybe you can’t. But can the Joneses? Can the people you care about? Jessica, everyone I’ve ever lived with has ended up dead. I’m not putting that on you. Even if I’m just being paranoid, I’m not going to take a risk that something happens to you because of me. Cap already saw your face. I don’t want you to get associated with me any further.”

 

“If he already saw my face, then it’s too late anyway,” Jessica argued. Peter groaned aloud, head tipping back with exasperation.

 

“Look, Jessica,” Peter ran a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture somewhat comforting. “It’s not anything against you. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

 

“What if they come here while you’re gone, huh?” Jessica prompted, scowling at him. “Then you’ll wish you’d been here.”

 

“Low blow,” Peter grumbled,scooping up Deadpool’s bedazzled phone from the comforter. “Give me your phone number. I’ll call you from this phone and then you’ll have a number you can reach me at.”

 

“That’s not the point, Peter,” 

 

“Just do it, would you? Geeze. I’m not going to stand here all day and debate with you, Jessica. I made my choice. I’m not staying. I’m giving you a way to get in contact with me if something happens. I don’t know why you’d even want me hanging around longer and putting you in more danger, but that’s not going to happen and I’m doing everything I can to fix the mistake I already made. Can you just accept that, please?”

 

Jessica was glowering at him, but she snatched the phone out of his hand and input her number as Peter watched over her shoulder.

 

“If you end up dead,” Jessica scolded him as she jammed the call button with her pointer finger. “Don’t come crying to me. Just remember that I tried to talk yo out of this stupid self-sacrificing hero shit.”

 

“I won’t,” Peter’s shoulders slumped with relief as Jessica’s phone vibrated in her pocket and she handed him Deadpool’s back. “Thanks, Jess.”

 

“Stop thanking me. It’s getting annoying.”

 

“Sorry.” He tried for a smile and thought that it came out pretty convincingly.

 

“You’re leaving now?” Jessica eyed him as he stood up and zipped the bag shut.

 

“Yeah,” Peter slung it over his healed shoulder, rubbing it reflexively. He’d had his powers for a year, now, but he still wasn’t really used to how quickly he healed. “I’ve got to get going.”

 

“I bet this is what the morning after feels like,” Jessica said dryly, and Peter’s lips quirked up a little. He needed more friends, he thought wistfully. “Except at least that happens  _ before _ the living hellscape of highschool instead of after.”

 

“Sorry, Jess. Let’s do this again sometime,” Peter quipped, amused as Jessica rolled her eyes.

 

“Sure, Peter,” She agreed flatly, going to open the bedroom door for him. “Now get the hell out of my house. Thank god, I was starting to think you were going to overstay your welcome.”

 

“I’m going, I’m going,” Peter couldn’t contain his snicker as he hustled past her, finding the front door easily enough. “I’ll see you again, soon, okay, Jessica? Call me if you need me.”

 

“Sure,” She watched him, arms folded, as he opened the door and stepped out. “Same to you. Oh, and Peter?” He paused, shooting her a look over his shoulder. “Happy birthday.”

 

Peter blinked, surprised, then afforded her a smile. “Thanks, Jessica Jones,” he murmured before pulling the door shut again, blocking her from view. He turned and jogged to the stairs, ignoring the elevator doors completely in his rush to get to the street. It was weird to think that it was his birthday, he mused. He was sixteen, now. Some sweet sixteen, he thought tiredly, pushing away the notion that he was alone to focus on the task at hand. As he emerged into the afternoon sunlight, he turned his face down, fiddling with the menus on Deadpool’s phone to make himself look like a typical, phone-obsessed teenager.

 

It had worked for Deadpool, he figured. No one would pay any attention to a teenager with a backpack in the afternoon on a weekday, playing Candy Crush on his phone. There had to be a million of those in this city.

 

He needed to stick to routes Spider-Man wouldn’t take, he figured, eyes lighting on a subway entrance at the end of the block as he glanced up. That would work.

 

“Stark said the footage placed them in this area,” A voice behind him said suddenly, and Peter nearly jumped out of his skin.  _ Cap _ . “But no sign since last night.”

 

Peter listened hard, trying to pick up on the other end of the conversation, but there was too much noise on the street. God, Captain America was  _ right behind him. _ Could he have worse luck?

 

“I intend to,” Cap agreed. “Although if he lives in the area, he could be bunkered down at home.” Another few moments of silence. “I’m not sure a door-to-door would get us any results.” Peter’s eyes burned into the subway entrance. He had to get away, but he couldn’t risk running. That would attract attention for sure. “You’re the expert, I guess.”

 

Peter hit the stairs for the subway and cast a glance out of the corner of his eye as he started down. Captain America walked by, scanning faces, and moments later disappeared from sight.

 

He didn’t allow himself to relax, instead hurrying down into the subway. It wasn’t one that would take him in the right direction, but that was alright: a zigzagging path around the city could only help him keep unnoticed, right?

 

Peter climbed onto the subway and managed to snag a seat, drooping with relief as the doors slid shut. He was careful to check every face in the car with him, but no one looked familiar, and no one was paying him any attention. He turned his attention back to the phone, letting himself melt into the background.

 

**DP: You were right**

**DP: They’re still out looking for me**

**Unknown Number: You ran into them?**

**DP: No not really**

**DP: I saw one of them but he didnt recognize me**

**Unknown Number: You’re in civilian clothes? Good. That’s probably for the best. You’ll be more difficult to recognize, that way.**

**DP: That was my thought**

**DP: Can I ask you something**

**Unknown Number: Anything, Peter.**

**DP: Who are you working for?**

 

It must not have been a question that the Chameleon was expecting, because there was a pause for several minutes before a reply finally came in.

 

**Unknown Number: It’s not safe for you to try and fight him, Peter.**

**DP: I didnt say I wanted to fight him I asked who he was**

**Unknown Number: Why do you want to know?**

 

Because Peter wanted to try and fight him, he admitted. He wanted to bring him down.

 

**DP: What’s he planning?**

**Unknown Number: He wants to bring the criminal underbelly of this city under his control. He wants to rule every rat in New York. He wants the wealth, and the power, and the notoriety.**

 

That didn’t sound good.

 

**DP: Tell me his name**

**Unknown Number: Noah Montford.**

 

Peter blinked down at the name. That was it. That was the name. If the Chameleon was being honest, that was the name of the man who’d been reaping evil under Peter’s nose. The one that brought all those weapons into the city. The one who hired Octavius to clone the Avengers. The one that wanted to capture him and use him. The one who got Gwen killed. Peter swallowed hard and opened up a new text conversation with the number that Deadpool had called from earlier.

 

**DP: DP are you still there**

**Unknown Number: Baby boy youre reaching out to little old me??? Im honestly so touched**

 

Okay, this was weird. Peter hastily fiddled with the nicknames on the phone. PP for his own phone, DP for the number Deadpool was now using, and DS for Dmitri Smerdyakov. While he was at it, he added JJ for Jessica’s number.

 

**PP: I need your help**

**DP: Anything for you angel what do you need**

**DP: Just tell Deadpool what you need**

**DP: Your wish is my command**

**DP: No charge, obvi**

**PP: I need you to find out what you can about a guy named Noah Montford**

**DP: Got it.**

 

A period, Peter noticed with a snort of amusement. Deadpool just clicked into Serious Mode. 

 

**PP: Let me know what you find**

**DP: You know I will dont worry your pretty little head about it**

 

He turned his attention back to the other conversation.

 

**DS: Be careful, Spider-Man. He’s impossible to fight alone.**

**PP: Dont worry im just collecting information for now**

**DS: I’m proud of you, Peter. That’s a very responsible attitude to take. The more information you can get, the better. You want to be completely prepared before trying to take him on.**

**PP: I know**

**PP: What do you know about his powers?**

**DS: Not much: he’s very private about them. I only know what I’ve learned on my own. Unfortunately, since I haven’t met him in person, it’s mostly through secondhand accounts. You already know a little: he can force you to relive memories so vividly that the outside world is blocked out completely. It seems that he has to maintain focus to keep you inside it, although he can do some limited multitasking. He can speak to others, walk, and move other objects, but he can be distracted by a conversation (1 of 2)**

**DS: or strenuous activity. (2 of 2)**

**PP: I want to ask you something else**

**DS: Whatever you like.**

**PP: I still dont get why youre trying to help me**

**DS: I dont approve of what my employer is trying to do with you. I admire you, as I mentioned before, and I want to ensure your freedom to continue using your powers the way you see fit.**

**PP: So you just… like me?**

**DS: That’s one way of putting it.**

 

Peter frowned at his phone, then looked out the window to watch the wall flash by outside. The world was a confusing and terrifying place, he thought grimly, if the one person he could trust was the Chameleon.

 

But that wasn’t entirely true, he assured himself. There were more people he could trust. He just had to figure out who was who.

 

The ride over to Manhattan was long, but at least he was relatively safe, during it. That was a rare feeling to come by. Who would have ever thought that the one place he would feel safe was the subway to Manhattan in New York City? It was almost an oxymoron.

 

But the anticipation built, and by the time he was stepping off the train, he was nearly buzzing with anticipatory energy. If the Avengers were looking for him, they would probably look most in Queens and Manhattan: those were the boroughs were he had the biggest presence. At least he knew that Captain America was in Queens. One less to worry about. Who did that leave?

 

There had been four of them last night, he remembered. Cap, Nat, Clint, and Mr. Stark. He remembered, suddenly, the technology he’d given to Mr. Stark only four days ago: the drive that had held hidden inside it four hairs. He closed his eyes, frustrated with himself. He should have realized sooner. They had four already: the ones inside the compartments must have been for Dr. Banner,  Thor, Sam, and Bucky. Peter shuddered at the thought: it was bad enough that they'd managed to clone who they had already, but having a Hulk at their disposal? Or the god of thunder? He couldn't bear to think of where they'd be, then. Peter grit his teeth, grateful that they'd managed to keep those particular strands of hair out of Octavius's hands, even if he had managed to get ahold of some of them.

 

He felt bad for ignoring the beeping of his comm, the last few days, now. No doubt Mr. Stark had discovered who the hairs belonged to, by now, and had wanted to tell him.

 

No need to worry about it at this point, he supposed: he was on his way to the Avenger's Tower, and then they could go over everything. He could tell them everything he'd learned, and then maybe they could work together on this.

 

Or maybe Peter could let them handle it. He was so tired of fighting. He was so tired of running. He was so tired all of this. He just wanted to take a break. Was that so wrong?

 

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily as he climbed the stairs up to street level. He wasn't far from Avenger's Tower, really, he noticed as he stepped onto the sidewalk. The second thing he noticed was Iron Man flying by overhead.

 

He ducked his head down, unable to tell if that up above was Mr. Stark or a clone. He pulled the phone back up, pretending to be absorbed in it as he struck out, trying to look as normal as possible. He swallowed hard, listening as the repulsors faded in the distance.

 

He was lucky that he didn't have any particularly noticeable features, he thought with a grimace. He was just another white teenage boy walking the streets of one of the most densely populated cities in the country. It was so easy to overlook him. He could only hope that his luck would keep up.

 

A glance up saw Natasha up ahead on the sidewalk, leaned against a building. Her eyes were brutal and sharp as they picked through the crowd that passed her. Peter nearly staggered to a stop at the sight, but he quickly corrected himself, grateful that she hadn't noticed she slip-up. He couldn't afford to draw attention to himself, he thought anxiously, continuing to walk towards her. He tried to put as many people as he could between himself and her, trying to get as far out of her sight as possible.

 

He stared at his phone, catching sight of her out of his periphery as he drew closer. Her eyes slid over the crowd, and his spidey sense buzzed quietly, informing him as her gaze brushed over him.

 

It faded again as he passed by and her attention moved on. Peter continued walking, unmolested, until he rounded a corner into a series of alleys only two blocks away from Avengers Tower. He’d used the area more than once in his endeavors to maintain his identity, and it was easy to find somewhere to change.

 

Hidden beneath an overhang, wedged between two dumpsters, Peter Parker vanished again and Spider-Man reentered the city.

 

He still had to be careful, Peter told himself firmly as he scampered up the side of a building. Hawkeye was unaccounted for, still, and Iron Man was undoubtedly in the area. Even if Natasha didn’t spot him, one of them might, and he didn’t want to find out where they might try and take him if they got the opportunity.

 

He climbed up to the roof, staying low as he scanned the roofs around him. No sign of anyone else lurking, he thought. But he wasn’t on the highest building, either. There were a lot of towers around here, after all. They could be on top of any one of them.

 

Peter looked down the road toward Avengers Tower. He was certain that he would be spotted, once he headed for it, and he was more than a little nervous. He wasn’t sure if the phonies out there were willing to injure him or not in their quest to capture him. He wasn’t sure whether or not they’d be willing to kill him. He wasn’t looking forward to finding out.   
  
Peter looked down at his phone. It couldn’t hurt, right?   
  
He pulled up DS and jammed the call button with his thumb, lifting the phone to his ear. After a few rings, there was an answer.

 

“Peter?”

 

“It’s me,” he confirmed. “I need your help, Chameleon.”

 

“Of course,” The Chameleon answered immediately. There was the sound of movement. “What can I do for you?”

 

“I need you to make a distraction for me,” Peter said, eyes still casting around for any danger. “I’m near Avengers Tower, but there’s Avengers all over the place. I don’t know if they’re the real ones or not, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

 

“What did you have in mind?”

 

Peter was quiet for a few moments as he deliberated. “If you disguise yourself as me, could you keep out of their hands long enough for me to get to the tower? I’d only need like, two minutes.”

 

“I think I can do that,” The Chameleon agreed. “May I ask one thing in return?” Peter frowned slightly.

 

“What?”

 

“Call me Dmitri.”

 

Peter snorted. “Honestly, all you adults are all the same. ‘Call me by my  _ first _ name’. Like I don’t get enough of that from the Avengers. Fine. Dmitri.”

 

“Thank you,” The Chameleon—  _ Dmitri _ — murmured back. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, Peter. Hang tight for me.”

 

“Okay. Thank you.”

 

“Any time.” There was a beep, and Peter lowered the phone from his ear as he realized that Dmitri had disconnected the call. 

 

Okay, he thought, crossing the roof to a fire escape, climbing down a floor in order to hide a little more securely. He just had to wait. Dmitri would draw them away, and then he would be able to get to the tower. He would be safe, there. The Avengers could help him.

 

Peter waited anxiously, watching the street down below for any sign of Dmitri. It was hard, waiting there with no way to know for sure when the distraction would begin: he felt like a sitting duck, there on the fire escape. No one seemed to be looking up at him, but it was hard to say for sure.

 

It was hard to say a lot of things for sure, these days. It seemed like almost everything was up in the air. He was pretty sure that kids his age were supposed to have stability, Peter thought with no small amount of bitterness. Yet here he was, a homeless runaway with superpowers and nowhere to go. All his loved ones were dropping like flies around him. His friends had become his enemies, his enemies were his friends, and the only thing he felt confident that he could count on was an intricate matrix of computer programs housed in a secure tower guarded by superbeings.

 

So, yeah, at least he had JARVIS.

 

He sighed heavily, leaning against the wall as he glanced up, wondering if Dmitri would really be able to pull this off. He had no doubt that the guy could look like him and run around town, drawing Avengers like moths to a flame, but what would he do, then? As far as Peter knew, the guy didn't have any actual powers. At least, none that would help him if the Avengers actually managed to lay hands on him.

 

Maybe he would just disappear into a crowd, transforming into someone else, Peter thought dryly. That seemed like the best way to go about it, as far as he could figure. But then again, Dmitri had a lot more experience than he did at this kind of thing. Maybe he had a better idea.

 

A slender, red-suited form sprinted by the mouth of the alley he was lurking in and Peter gaped, momentarily struck by how  _ strange _ it was to see oneself from a third person point of view, but then he saw Natasha flash by in the same direction, and he recognized the sound of repulsors going by overhead.

 

Oh, wow. It was working.

 

Peter waited a few moments longer, forcing himself to allow Iron Man to put some distance between them before he leapt from the building, throwing a web and pulling a sharp turn around the corner, flinging himself haphazardly through the air and towards Avenger's Tower.

 

His spidey sense rang out clearly as he caught himself with another web, only to feel it slacken under his grip. Peter began to fall, crying out in horror as he threw another web and it met the same fate.

 

They were being cut, Peter realized as he plummeted towards the ground. But how? By who? The third strand fell away even as he threw it, but this time he heard the  _ twang _ of a bowstring.

 

Hawkeye, he realized just before impact. He'd forgotten to account for Hawkeye.

 

Peter slammed into a car, bouncing off the hood as the driver slammed on the breaks. He went spinning, feeling the gritty asphalt digging into him through the suit as he rolled across the ground.

 

_ Ow _ .

 

Peter groaned, staggering to his feet as he scanned the rooftops above for any sign of the archer. He hadn't been shot yet, which was a good sign: maybe they didn't want him dead after all. Certainly Hawkeye had shot exactly what he intended to, as always.

 

Peter took a step forward and an arrowhead glanced off the ground in front of his foot, startling Peter a step backwards, away from the tower.

 

Okay, Peter thought determinedly, following the line of the arrow up to one particularly tall roof. He couldn't see Clint, but he was sure that he was up there. He was going to need to take a page out of Captain America's book if he didn't want to get shot.

 

Peter moved quickly: he threw a web upwards with one arm, then another with the second. By the time the second landed on a building, the first had already been shot through, but Clint was distracted, going after the second line, so Peter used his first hand to steal a small, two-seater style wrought iron table from outside a cafe.

 

He got it up just in time to block the arrow that came at him, then, sending it clattering away.

 

Peter launched into a sprint, then, muttering to himself under his breath. The words mostly consisted of " _ Run run run run run _ ," But nobody was going to catch him admitting it.   
  
He got nearly a block before an arrow hit the top of the table, and Peter felt good about the decision for a split second until a jolt of electricity caused him to yelp and nearly drop the table on his own dang head.

 

But, Peter thought through gritted teeth, shaking the arrow off with pained arms, if he could hang onto a thermonuclear generator with his bare hands, he could hang onto a freaking electrified table. Heck-- that should be  _ way  _ easier.   
  
Peter kept running, and as he approached the front door to the tower, his spidey sense blared louder than before. There was no time to react: a small explosion against the top of the table knocked him to the ground, scaring screams from the pedestrians who hadn't thought that Spider-Man running with a table over his head was reason for concern.

 

"Hawkeye!" Peter shouted up at the sky, voice cracking. "You're being a real jerk right now!"   
  
People were running, now, and Peter hauled his sorry butt off the ground, leaving behind the charred table as he dashed the last few feet into the building.   
  
People were staring at him, inside, but he ignored them. Yes, he thought irritably, he was a little charred. It wasn't any of their business, though. Instead, he just jammed the comm in his ear once and skidded into the elevator.    
  
"Good afternoon, Mr. Spider-Man," JARVIS greeted him politely, and Peter panted against the wall for a few seconds, skin aching.   
  
"I need to go upstairs, JARVIS," he gasped out. "Are the Avengers here?"   
  
"Currently only Dr. Banner is in the tower," JARVIS told him apologetically.    
  
"Call the team," Peter turned around as the elevator started upwards. "I need to talk to everyone as soon as possible." Only a beat of silence before JARVIS answered him.

 

"The Avengers have been notified," the AI assured him.

 

"Oh, and JARVIS?"   
  
"Yes, sir?"   
  
"Would you please verify everybody's identities as they come in?"   
  
"Of course, sir."

 

"Thanks, buddy." Peter let out a sigh of relief as the elevator doors slid open, revealing Dr. Banner, looking flabbergasted.

 

"Spider-Man!" He exclaimed, ushering Peter out of the elevator. "What happened to you? Where have you been? After your emergency signal yesterday, when you disappeared, everyone's been going crazy looking for you--"

 

"Sorry, Dr. Banner," Peter grunted as the doctor's hand landed on a raw spot on his back. The hand was quickly snatched away. "I really didn't mean for any of that to happen. I was fully intending to still be right where I was when I sent you guys that signal." He shook his head. "Did you guys manage to get that generator?"

 

"Yes, yes," Dr. Banner assured him with a frown, clearly distracted from the question by Peter's somewhat toasted aesthetic. "Right next to Dr. Octavius. It looked like quite a fight. There was an awful lot of blood." He gave Peter a reproachful look, then, as he sat him down on a couch.

 

"Like I said," Peter said dryly. "I really didn't intend to run off."

 

"So why did you?"

 

Peter sighed heavily, glancing out the window towards where the rain of arrows had been coming from. That roof was below them, now, but there was no sign of Clint. He must have abandoned that position once Peter had made it inside. Knowing this mystery man, their creator, Peter thought flatly, they were retreating. They would probably disappear until the worst possible time.   
  
But at least he was safe, here.

 

"Spider-Man?" Dr. Banner prompted him, startling Peter out of his reverie.

 

"Do you mind if I wait until the rest of the team gets here?" Peter ran a hand over the top of his head, feeling a little overwhelmed. What could he tell them? So much had happened in the last few days. What should he say? "There's a lot I need to tell you."

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of April! The arc finally comes to a close. Get ready for May: Thinking Too Much! ;D
> 
> Join us in my discord! https://discord.gg/4hdXVw4


	14. Thinking Too Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a deep breath. Now let it out. It's all good. This chapter is like, almost entirely fluff. It's about time, right?

**May**

 

It had been twelve days since Spider-Man arrived at Avengers Tower. It had been twelve days since Natasha had officially met Peter Parker face to face. It had been twelve days since the revelations that had been introduced had changed everything.

 

Natasha reflected.

 

_Spider-Man and Peter Parker had sat side by side on the couch, each looking more nervous than the last as they explained how Spider-Man had been hiding Peter to keep him safe from attempts on his life by Doc Ock. Peter had insisted upon attending Gwen’s funeral, and Spider-Man had been there to guard him, out of sight, until Dr. Octavius appeared downtown. The young hero had gone after him, they explained, and he sent Deadpool to take care of Peter in the meantime. Spidey hadn’t realized, he claimed, that Deadpool would go so far._

 

_To Spider-Man’s credit, Natasha had reflected, looking at the two young men, Peter didn’t look terrible, especially for a runaway. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair had grown shaggy, but he didn’t look underfed and there were no visible bruises, at least. Spider-Man had clearly been doing his best by the orphan boy. Peter certainly looked better than Spidey himself did. The tears in his suit displayed bleeding abrasions that Bruce had insisted upon cleaning as they told their story, and the young man looked even thinner than the last time she had seen him. Most troubling, though, were the holes, round and wide, in the spandex at his stomach. Despite the lack of injury there, the sight made her teeth grit._

 

_Then the boys had told them about the clones._

 

_“The hairs in the drive I brought you,” Spider-Man had spoken quickly, hands gesticulating wildly in his anxiety. “They belonged to you guys. I think to Bucky, Dr. Banner, Sam, and Thor, because I’ve seen Cap, Nat, Mr. Stark, and Clint.”_

 

_“You’re right, kid,” Tony had agreed nonchalantly, but his face was pale. “I ran an analysis on them and that’s what I came up with, too. If you’d have showed up when I beeped your comm, I could have told you that sooner and maybe you would have been able to get the drop on those punks.”_

 

_“Not likely,” Spidey had laughed weakly. “I was… in pretty bad shape, at the time.” His hand went to his stomach, then, and Natasha frowned. He must have noticed, because he quickly snatched it away, holding both hands palm out towards her in an attempt to placate her. “I did call you guys! It was right before they showed up, though, so I had to beat it.”_

 

_“And you dropped your tracker on the way,” Tony had inserted himself into the conversation again, looking a little more cross this time. “You know, you’re going to give me an aneurism one of these days, kid.”_

 

_“Sorry,” Spidey had winced sympathetically. “I… it was crazy. I didn’t mean to. I was just…” His head tipped down, masked face aimed at the floor._

 

_“You were scared,” Peter supplied sympathetically, a grimace on his face. “I can relate.”_

 

_It looked like he could._

 

Natasha was going over the video footage of that day for what felt like the hundredth time.

 

_Spider-Man had been about to tell them something, although he seemed to be having some difficulty getting it out. Shifting in his seat, stopping and starting several times. Before he managed to say anything, JARVIS had spoken up._

 

_“My deepest apologies for the interruption,” He had said contritely. “But Peter Parker is in the lobby, asking to see Spider-Man.”_

 

_Every Avenger in the room tensed, shooting glances amongst each other, but Natasha’s eyes were drawn to Spider-Man. He’d frozen, fingers clenched tightly together in his lap. His head had tipped down, briefly, as if something had just occurred to him, before he stood abruptly._

 

_“Do you guys mind if he comes up? I don’t want to leave him out in the open for too long.”_

 

_“Are you sure it’s him?” Steve spoke up after a few seconds, and Spider-Man had hesitated only briefly before nodding firmly._

 

_“It’s him. But don’t worry, I’ll double check when he comes up.”_

 

_“Bring him up, JARVIS,” Tony had instructed, a frown on his face._

 

_“What’s this about?” Bucky had asked from where he was leaning against the back of the couch, frowning over at Spidey._

 

_“I’ll explain everything,” Spider-Man had promised just as Peter Parker emerged from the elevator, hands worrying the hem of his shirt._

 

_“Spidey,” Peter said, relief casting light over a previously dark expression._

 

_“Peter,” Spider-Man had crossed the room to him, hesitating awkwardly outside the elevator before beckoning the teenager forward. Natasha considered the two of them, side by side. They were very similar heights, with Peter being only half an inch shorter, but Spider-Man was leaner by far. She cautiously dismissed a theory she’d been working on as to Spider-Man’s identity as the young hero led the runaway back over to the couch._

 

_“Tell me what the last thing I said to you was,” Spider-Man was questioning him, and Peter cast a nervous glance at the Avengers before answering._

 

_“You told me to stay put,” The boy admitted with chagrin, teasing a snort of laughter out of Spider-Man._

 

_“You’re not great at following orders,” The hero said, arms crossing as the teen collapsed onto the couch, hands hanging limp and head bowing slightly. He looked… exhausted._

 

_“No,” Peter agreed with a quiet laugh of his own. “I’m not.” Spider-Man had sat next to him, then, and the Avengers had crowded close._

 

There was something off about the two of them, Natasha reflected as she started the video over again. Maybe it could just be chalked up to Spider-Man’s surprise over Peter’s appearance, but her instincts were telling her otherwise. And it certainly didn’t explain how Peter managed to vanish, undetected, from the tower that night.

 

Spider-Man’s reticence wasn’t exactly helping, either.

 

“JARVIS,” Nat spoke aloud, alone in her room. “Show me the surveillance for the common room, please.”

 

“Of course,” JARVIS agreed, sounding very nearly judgemental. She couldn’t blame him, she supposed; she’d asked for a view of the living room every few hours for nearly two weeks, now.

 

Spider-Man was asleep on the couch.

 

Natasha wasn’t surprised. When he’d arrived, there had been a flurry of activity for a few hours: the interrogation with him and Peter, proper treatment for Spidey’s wounds, a hastily prepared meal, and finally rooms for each of the boys to get some rest. Peter, of course, had disappeared from his suite at some point in the night, and it had taken several tries to wake Spider-Man up enough to get him to realize what had happened.

 

He hadn’t seemed concerned. He’d gone back to sleep. In fact, he’d done a lot of sleeping those first few days.

 

Natasha felt a flash of empathy run through her as she thought of Spider-Man. Once or twice a day, he would emerge, staggering and dressed in borrowed sweatpants and hoodies, from his room for food before returning to the enclosed space and sleeping more. Despite the frankly worrying amounts of rest, Spidey still seemed exhausted every time she saw him.

 

Finally, after a late lunch one day, he collapsed onto the couch in the living room instead of returning to the bedroom.

 

It was a welcome change: the team, gloomy with their worry, had brightened immediately, teasing and joking around with Spider-Man, inviting him to play video games or watch movies. The young hero had more or less reciprocated, and whether it was entirely false or not, even Natasha couldn’t say. But it was obvious to the whole team, mask or not, that he fell asleep again during the movie marathon that started up that night.

 

Depression, Natasha suspected. Maybe something even more serious.

 

From that point on, Spider-Man was operating on Tony Rules— sleeping at odd hours, sleeping not enough, sleeping too much. He was trying hard to act normal, Natasha could tell, but something wasn’t right. The kid had been through more than he had implied.

 

There was too much that was strange about the situation, Natasha thought, annoyance plucking at her lips. Nothing was going the way it should. She felt like a dog with a bone, albeit a particularly vexing one. She wasn’t going to let go until she figured this out.

 

Natasha sighed, rubbing her fingertips under her eyes as she watched Spider-Man sleeping, more or less peacefully, on the couch at four in the afternoon. There was a knock on the door and she sighed, shooting a glance over.

 

“Come in.” The door swung open and Barnes stepped inside, shutting the door behind himself immediately. Natasha turned more fully to face him, eyebrows lifting. “Barnes. What can I do for you?”

 

He gestured to the display in front of her, still showcasing Spidey. “You’re checking in on the kid.”

 

“Did JARVIS tell you?”

 

“No.” He crossed his arms, leaning back against the door. “You just don’t usually spend a lot of time in here.”

 

“You’ve got me figured out, Barnes,” she said dryly, hands spreading open in front of her. “What can I say? You’re too good for me.” Her hands dropped back into her lap. “What’s it to you?”

 

He shrugged. “I’m worried about him, too.”

 

There was quiet for a few moments as the two of them stared at each other. Sometimes they didn’t see eye to eye, Natasha thought warily. It was hard to be around him, sometimes, considering their shared history. But he cared about the kid, too, she had to admit. At least they could agree on that.

 

“Have you talked to him?” Natasha prompted, leaning back in her seat. Some of the tension went out of Barnes’s shoulders.

 

“He hasn’t been real chatty,” The man drawled. “Not about anything that matters.”

 

“Maybe he’ll open up to someone, if we give him more time,” Natasha suggested, watching the screen with a frown. Spider-Man shifted in his sleep.

 

“Sometimes I think he’s about to,” Barnes grumbled, clearly frustrated. “But then he clams back up again.”

 

“Don’t push it,” Nat advised. “He’s a very social kid. If he doesn’t crack in the next week, I’ll be shocked. All the same, I’m thinking about asking Bruce to do some therapy sessions with him. If he agrees to it, anyway.”

 

“Banner’s not a therapist,” Barnes protested with a frown, and Natasha shot him a skeptical look.

 

“For one, he’s been Tony’s acting therapist for _years_ , so he’s more qualified than anyone else in the tower. And besides, I think that Spidey’s much more likely to open up to one of us than some egghead shrink, don’t you?”

 

Barnes grunted his affirmation, but a grimace twisted at his features. “I guess so. He _is_ pretty tight-lipped about private shit, but he might be more willing to talk to someone who gets the superhero side of all this. And hey, if it’s the civilian side, well… I guess Banner would understand that side of things, too, better than the rest of us.”

 

Natasha snorted, shaking her head as she ticked off the Avengers on her fingers. “Two supersoldiers from the forties, a classified government aerial specialist, a lifelong Russian assassin, a carnie, a billionaire, a literal god, and a guy who turns into a monster when he gets mad. I don’t think any of us are especially well-suited to a task like this one, but he’s certainly the closest. He and Sam are the only ones who had any semblance of a normal adulthood before everything went to shit and everyone became superheroes, one way or another.”

 

“So Sam’s an option, too,” Barnes commented idly, and Natasha nodded.

 

“He’s an option, too,” She agreed. “And he has some experience talking to veterans about their issues, although he’s more used to people with PTSD than…” She trailed off, fingers tapping at her lips. “Hmm.”

 

“You think it’s that bad?” Barnes asked, scowl deepening.

 

“Maybe,” Natasha answered with a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s certainly not outside the realm of possibility, but I’m not really qualified, as we’ve discussed, to make that kind of diagnosis.”

 

“Right,” Barnes straightened up with a sigh. “Well, I think that’s our best bet. Therapy.”

 

“If Spidey will do it,” Natasha added, watching as he turned to the door.

 

“Oh, the kid’ll do it,” Barnes snorted. “We just have to get him talking. Once we do, I bet we’ll be harder pressed to get him to stop.” Natasha laughed, despite herself, as the soldier excused himself, shutting the door quietly on the way out. She looked back at the screen as Spider-Man lurched abruptly upright, apparently gasping.

 

\---

 

_Peter stood outside the door, a smile on his face. He had just knocked, he knew, because he had always just knocked. It opened, as it always did, to reveal Aunt May beaming at him._

 

_“Peter, Gwen,” She exclaimed, delighted, and of course, Gwen was there next to him, holding his hand, as she always was. “I’m so happy you could make it. Come inside!”_

 

_“Hi, Aunt May,” Peter stepped forward and hugged her tightly for hours, grief and joy warring nonsensically in his chest. He remembered, vaguely, her death, but it didn’t matter at that moment. “Thanks for having us.” He let go and made room for Gwen, who hugged Aunt May as he looked around. The apartment was just as it always was: the same photos on the walls, television turned off but playing something anyway, probably, Aunt May’s coat hung next to Uncle Ben’s on the rack. “Is Uncle Ben here yet?”_

 

_“Of course, of course,” Aunt May fussed over him as he and Gwen hung up their coats, shaking off the summer heat. “How are the kids?” Peter hooked his Spider-Man mask onto one of the pegs, and quickly looked away from it to find Gwen. She didn’t look right, but it was her, alright._

 

_“They’re good,” Peter was in his thirties, obviously, and he no longer forgot that fact. He and Gwen had two or three kids, or maybe just one. “Thor’s watching them tonight.”_

 

_“How sweet,” They were in the kitchen, watching Aunt May cook. Peter knew she and Gwen were talking, but all he could do was watch the two of them. It didn’t matter what they were saying, just that they were saying it. The two of them had a rapport built over years of closeness that introduced a burst of love into the still tumultuous emotions still wrestling inside him. He put his Spider-Man mask on the table with a smile that didn’t fit his face quite right._

 

_There was a hand on his shoulder and Peter turned around. He was standing in the park with Uncle Ben, just like always, who hugged him like he always had, and for a few moments, Peter couldn’t breathe._

 

_“Good to see you, Pete,” He mumbled, face soft, graying hair showing no sign of the years that were supposed to have passed. Peter still couldn’t think of an answer. “Your Aunt May and I have been missin’ you. You don’t stop by much anymore.”_

 

_“I’m sorry,” Peter managed to gasp, but it came out as a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Uncle Ben.”_

 

_“Ah,” His uncle waved a hand in the air, dismissing his plea for forgiveness altogether. “Don’t worry about it. We’re just glad you and Gwen find the time. We know you’re busy.”_

 

_“You come first,” Peter said. “You always come first. You’re the most important thing.”_

 

_“I know that,” Uncle Ben assured him as Peter draped his Spider-Man mask over the back of a bench. “I know.” Gwen’s arm slung around his waist and Aunt May smiled at him, shoulder to shoulder with Uncle Ben._

 

_“I love you,” Peter said to his Uncle, then to his Aunt, “I love you.” He met Gwen’s eyes. They were a much icier blue than they should have been, but that was okay. “I love you.”_

 

_“We love you, too.”_

 

_“Peter,” It was Gwen, and he turned to look at her fully. “What is that in your hands?”_

 

Peter woke up.

 

He was in the Avenger’s Tower, where he’d nodded off sitting on the couch. He panted, staggering to his feet as the unbidden terror that came with that seemingly innocuous dream flowed through him like a crashing wave. He bent double, gripping his knees as he tried to get a grip, trying to push down the rising panic attack as he gasped for air.

 

“Hey, Spidey.”

 

Peter’s head whipped up and he caught sight of Cap entering the room from the elevator, a mug in each hand, sketchpad and pencil bag tucked under his arm.

 

“Cap,” He managed to sound vaguely normal, and he was glad that his expression was hidden under the mask.

 

“I made you some coffee,” Cap lifted one of the mugs, a teasing smile coming to his face. “Figured you could use the energy boost. Maybe I was wrong, but hey, it’s got that vanilla creamer you like in it, so might as well, right?”

 

Peter flushed, forcing his spine to unbend until he was standing straight. The Captain didn’t mention his painfully obvious dysfunction, and Peter was beyond grateful for it. “Thanks Cap,” The Captain reached him, then, and pressed one mug into his hands, and Peter’s fingers curled around the warmth, his tremors easing as he stared at the smooth, milky surface of the coffee. Cap was watching him, he knew, but he waited until the man had clasped his shoulder and gone to sit in the armchair before he tentatively sat back down, himself.

 

“So how’s it going, Spidey?” Cap asked, setting his own coffee down on the glass end table before propping one foot up against his knee and setting his sketchpad on the makeshift surface, turning his attention to his pencil bag.

 

“Uh— great,” Peter still felt rattled, but he was calming down, eyes not leaving the cup. “You know. Swell. How… how are you?”

 

“Doing okay.” Cap was sketching something, but Peter couldn’t see what it was from where he sat. The two of them lapsed into silence, then, and Peter listened to the quiet room around them instead of trying to make conversation.

 

The quiet rasp of graphite on sketch paper.

 

Ever since coming to the tower, Peter thought suddenly, he’d been feeling weird. Listless. Exhausted all the time. Deflated, like someone had let all his air out the minute he’d handed the clone issue over to the Avengers.

 

The soft, out-of-sync breaths of the room’s two inhabitants.   
  
The anxiety was still always there, Peter admitted with a frown. He remembered his bowl analogy of a few months ago— it felt particularly pertinent now. The cavity inside him was deeper, now, with the thin veil of cellophane over it clearer than ever. The anxiety, he thought with a twist of the lips that wasn’t particularly humorous, was like someone had set bees loose inside the bowl, and they kept knocking against the sides and the top, bumbling around in there, making a racket.

 

Peter could hear the mechanical sounds of the tower if he listened hard enough, but mostly they faded into the background.

 

The Avengers were worried about him. He was almost never alone, when he was awake. He cast a glance at Steve, wondering if JARVIS had told him that he was waking up. It wouldn’t surprise him, at this point, honestly. He would call them worrywarts if the concern was less necessary.

 

Peter tugged his mask up a little and took a sip of the coffee. The sound was loud compared to the others he could hear.

 

He had almost told them, he reminded himself with a sigh. He’d almost given away his identity. He had been ready, in that moment, to throw in the towel. He had decided to tell the Avengers everything— about the Chameleon, about the clones, about the mystery man. He didn’t want any of it, anymore. He just wanted to rest.

 

But then the Chameleon had shown up, disguised as Peter Parker, and Peter had been blindsided. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to call the Chameleon out as an imposter and get him caught; after all, the man had been helping him.

 

Peter fished Deadpool’s phone out of his belt. It had garnered a little teasing when it had first made its appearance, there at the tower, but when he explained that it had been Deadpool’s, everyone seemed to accept the bedazzled case as normal.

 

He opened to his text conversation with the Chameleon, starting the morning after he had arrived at the tower.

 

**PP: Ok care to explain what all that was all about**

**DS: I thought that you might need some backup.**

**PP: Whyd you sneak out?**

**DS: The longer that I was there in the tower, the higher the chance that I would be exposed. It’s better this way, trust me.**

**PP: Ok fair**

**PP: Nats pretty mad about it though**

**DS: I imagine so.**

**PP: Howd you do it?**

**DS: I have many tricks up my sleeve. Like a magician, I must keep them to myself it I want them to stay effective.**

**PP: Ok**

**DS: If I may ask, do you plan on telling them that it was me?**

**PP: No**

**PP: Tbh I was considering telling them who i was yesterday**

**PP: I think I was just overwhelmed**

**PP: My heads back on right today though haha**

**DS: Out of curiosity, why do you keep a secret identity? The Avengers are all open about their identities.**

**PP: I mean**

**PP: For one im just some 16 year old runaway yk**

**PP: And if they found that out id have to leave NY to go live with my moms cousin or whatever**

**PP: And heck man**

**PP: Even though I dont really have anyone to protect right now**

**PP: Maybe someday I will**

**PP: And if people know who I am, they could go after whoever I end up marrying someday**

**PP: Or any kids I have**

**PP: Or ANYBODY**

**PP: I have to think about the future, here**

**DS: That’s very wise of you, Peter. I agree.**

**PP: You wouldn’t tell anybody, right?**

**DS: Of course not. Never.**

 

There was more, mostly just idle chatter from a tired teen and the polite responses from the spy. He was actually a surprisingly good conversationalist. Peter didn’t pay it much mind, just sipping his coffee again as Steve sketched nearby. It was kind of comforting, he thought. He wasn’t really very close to many people anymore, but he could text one kind-of-friend while sitting quietly with another, drinking coffee and telling himself that everything was okay.

 

And maybe it wasn’t okay, but it would be someday, surely. The grieving process ended, eventually, and he would be alright again. He had to hold onto that hope.  


“What are you drawing?” Peter found himself asking, a dull glimmer of interest in his chest that he hadn’t noticed until he was already speaking.

 

Steve shot him a look, seemingly surprised that he had spoken, before a smile spread over his lips. “Not much,” He tilted the art pad so Peter could see. “Mostly just doodling.” It was a picture of a young woman with short, curly hair and a wide smile.

 

“Doodling,” Peter scoffed. “You’re really good, Cap. Who knew that Captain America was an artist?”

 

Steve laughed. “You know, I actually went to art school for a few semesters. It was… kind of what I was hoping to be, back before the war. An artist.”

 

“Wow,” Peter considered spouting the fun fact that Hitler was also an artist, but decided to keep it to himself. “That’s amazing. Do you ever think about going back to art school?” Steve grimaced ruefully.

 

“I don’t think… that that’s very feasible, at this point. The Avengers have a lot to do, and I imagine that it would be pretty difficult to keep up with schooling while living a life like this.” His head tipped to the side as he considered Peter. “I imagine you would know something about that, wouldn’t you? You’re in school, right?”

 

Peter stiffened. He couldn’t remember if he’d _told_ the Avengers he was in school, or if they had figured out a closer approximation of his age.

 

“What college do you go to, Spidey? If you don’t mind me asking.”

 

“Um,” Peter swallowed and decided to go with a partial truth. “Well, I’m actually… not in school right now. I had to drop out.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Steve frowned. “Why?”

 

“Just… different things.” Peter shrugged, frowning down at his coffee. It was almost gone, he noticed regretfully. “You’re right. The superhero lifestyle makes it pretty hard to keep up.”

 

“A smart young man like you ought to be in school,” Steve said mournfully, surprising Peter into looking up.

 

“I’ll go back,” Peter promised. “Once things… settle down.”

 

"Settle down," Steve repeated slowly. "So things have been pretty crazy lately, huh? Do you want to talk about it?"

 

Peter visibly flinched, then laughed in an attempt to cover it up as he set his coffee down, making sure his mask was firmly in place. "Oh, no, I'm good, really," He stood, watching Steve's expression flick rapidly through surprise, alarm, sadness, and resignation. "But hey, I've got... stuff I need to be doing."

 

"You're not leaving, right?" Steve asked him, concerned. "We agreed that that's too dangerous for you right now."

 

"I know," Peter nodded. "Clones lurking around every corner, and all that. I get it. I just... wanted to go see Mr. Stark today."

 

"Oh," Steve nodded slowly. "I'm sure that he'll love that. Alright, well, I hope you two have a good time." He smiled. "That mask functions as safety goggles, right?"

 

"Close enough," Peter agreed in a falsely cheerful voice as he trotted into the elevator. "JARVIS, can you ask Mr. Stark if I can come down to the lab, please?"

 

"He says that you're more than welcome," JARVIS assured him, shutting the doors and directing the elevator downwards.

 

"Did he really say that?" Peter asked, leaning against the back wall.

 

"No, sir."

 

"Didn't think so." The elevator doors opened and Peter stepped out into the lab. To his surprise, both Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner were inside today. Usually, when he came here, it was just Mr. Stark-- as far as he knew, Dr. Banner had his own labs that he tended to work in, with experiments and research completely different than what Tony usually dabbled in. Their experiments were better when they didn't mix, Peter remembered Mr. Stark telling him once.

 

"Hey, Spidey," Mr. Stark greeted him, and Dr. Banner shot him a smile.

 

"Spider-Man," He nodded as Peter approached, and Peter forced a smile under his mask even though he knew that neither of them would see it. He didn't want to worry them even more than he already had, after all.

 

"Hi, guys," Peter lifted his hand in a little wave, rounding the bench to be on the same side as they were. "What are you working on?"

 

"Trying to figure out how someone managed to create fully grown clones out of us," Mr. Stark admitted a little bitterly. "I mean, we understand cloning. We've done it before. But usually that creature has to _grow_ , just like anything conceived naturally. I don't _get_ how these guys, whoever they are, managed to circumvent that."

 

"It's new science, for sure," Dr. Banner agreed. "Nothing like anything the scientific community has seen before."

 

"Did you guys figure out who Miles Warren is?" Peter asked, looking over Mr. Stark's shoulder. It looked like they were trying to figure out the tech aspect of it. It was all way over Peter's head.

 

"Just some professor at Empire State," Mr. Stark mused, drumming his fingers against the table. "Natasha said that SHIELD's got eyes on him, but he hasn't been acting suspicious, lately."

 

"We might have missed the window to catch him going to wherever these clones were being made," Dr. Banner added regretfully. "If they've finished the clones that they had the DNA for, and they were prevented access to the next batch, well, I imagine that there isn't much for him to do there anymore. Maybe I'm assuming too much by thinking that he's at the top of this, but I don't think so. His name wouldn't have come up if he was just some kind of tech engineer or something. He must be the mastermind."

 

"What do you mean _just_ a tech engineer?" Mr. Stark demanded, sounding offended, and Peter stifled a snicker in the wave of guilt he felt immediately afterwards. "Engineers make the world go 'round, baby, and don't you ever forget it. You're talking to the king engineer right now. You're talking to the king engineer and the engineer heir apparent, Bruce, I can't believe you'd just go throwing out _justs_ like candy on Halloween."

 

Peter was snickering again. Was Mr. Stark _trying_ to make him laugh? It seemed likely.

 

"I didn't mean anything like that," Dr. Banner said, surprised, lifting his hands defensively. "I just meant that a tech guy might still be working when the higher ups might not. Maintaining and whatnot."

 

"Bruce, I'm disappointed in you," Mr. Stark shook his head. "I thought better of you. Honestly, I'm surprised. I've never seen the signs of this kind of bias from you before. From me this would be unsurprising, but from you? For shame, Bruce."

 

Peter chortled, despite himself, and missed the satisfied look the two scientists shared as he ran a hand over the top of his head.

 

"Come on, guys," Peter decided to intervene. "Bioengineering is where it's really at. Just throw both of them together, you guys, it's the simple solution."

 

"Oh, no," Mr. Stark groaned. "My apprentice has been compromised. Bruce, what have you been saying to him? I can't believe you'd topple my empire like this. Just when I had it all set up so that the world would have another tech genius to step up when I was gone, you go and turn him to the dark side. Alright, wonder twins," He jabbed a finger at Dr. Banner. "Brutus," And then at Peter. "And Judas. You've broken this old man's heart enough for one day. So either get some work done, or suggest something to get us out of this lab so we can leave the knife you stabbed me in the back with down here."

 

"I think you let that get away with you a little bit, Mr. Stark," Peter said with an actual smile, for a moment forgetting to be miserable.  
  
"Maybe a little," Mr. Stark agreed with a grimace. "The point stands. We're getting out of here. You hungry, kid?"

 

"Maybe a little," Peter echoed him in response.

 

"A little," Mr. Stark shook his head as Dr. Banner laughed behind him. "You can go plate for plate with _Captain America._ I don't think you've ever been 'a little' hungry in your life. At least not since you got enhanced."

 

"Come on, Spidey," Dr. Banner chuckled, standing and giving Peter a pat on the back. "Maybe by the time we get to the elevator, he'll be finished complaining."

 

"I wouldn't count on it," Peter said, following the older man as he turned to head for the exit. Behind them, Mr. Stark huffed his annoyance.

 

"Like I said," He sniffed. "Brutus and Judas. Since when were you two best buds, anyway? I'm supposed to be the common friend, here."

 

"Well, maybe that ought to change," Dr. Banner teased, and Mr. Stark scowled at him.

 

"Don't worry, Mr. Stark," Peter reached out to pat his arm. "You can always be the third wheel."

 

"Great," Mr. Stark rolled his eyes. "The kid's sassy again. Just wonderful."

 

"Don't act like you haven't been baiting me," Peter said, letting himself relax a little. "You've been trying to get a reaction out of me since I set foot in the lab."

 

"I've been trying to get a reaction out of you since I first _met_ you," Mr. Stark corrected him, and Dr. Banner chuckled again.

 

"That's why we like you, Tony," He said, nudging the engineer with his elbow.

 

"Yeah," Peter agreed, crossing his arms to avoid the jostling, just in case he fell into a million pieces on the floor. "That's why we like you, Tony."

 

Both of the men shot him a surprised look, then Mr. Stark crowed, jabbing one fist into the air as the elevator doors opened. He strode out, head high, surprising Steve, who was still in the living room, and Natasha, who had joined him. "The kid finally learned my name!" He announced to the room, and Peter rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck as he and Dr. Banner shuffled out onto the main floor after him. "Did you hear that, JARVIS? Play that back for me."

 

"That's why we like you, Tony," JARVIS played, and Peter flushed under his mask as Cap grinned and Natasha snickered.

 

"Mr. Stark, come on," Peter groaned, and Tony whipped around to point a finger at him.

 

"Oh, no," He said sharply. "You do _not_ get to go back. That's it. It's Tony from here on out. I never want to hear the name "Mr. Stark" come out of your mouth ever again, you got that, pipsqueak?"

 

"Got it," Peter agreed meekly.

 

"Got it...?" Mr. Stark prodded, and Peter ducked his head.

 

"Tony."

 

" _Thank_ you. Finally, Jesus Christ, it only took, what, nine months for you to actually use my name? God, you can have a _kid_ in that time. So, who wants to cook? Bruce? You've got dietary restrictions and all that, right?"

 

"I'll cook," Dr. Banner snorted, shaking his head. "If you'll stop shouting. But it's going to be vegetarian."

 

"That's fine," Tony shrugged. "As long as you make enough for everyone this time." He settled down at the table and Peter took the seat across from him as Bruce crossed over to the fridge.

 

"Since when have I not made enough for everyone?" Dr. Banner demanded, voice slightly muffled as he stuck his head inside, perusing ingredients.

 

"The day after Spider-Kid got here, you made dinner, remember? And then we had to order in because between Helmet-Head, Helmet-Head 2.0, and Mask-Face over here," He gestured to Peter as the teen wondered whether Cap or Thor was Helmet-head 2.0. "It was gone in no time."

 

"Well, I didn't know all three of them were eating," Dr. Banner answered defensively. "I'll make enough, okay? I'll take care of it."

 

"In my defense," Peter spoke up. "I hadn't really eaten in a couple of days."

 

"Kid," Tony said exasperatedly. "That's not a great defense. You really should have been eating."

 

"I was busy," Peter complained, tipping his head back. "I don't know how many times I have to explain that to you guys."

 

"We get that you wanted to bring Octavius in," Dr. Banner spoke up as he reemerged from the refrigerator. "But you really can't let your self-care slip like that. It's dangerous, especially for someone with a metabolism like yours."

 

Peter frowned down at the table, annoyance settling back over him. "It's not like I did it on purpose," he mumbled, and he missed the look exchanged between the adults yet again.

 

"Spidey," Dr. Banner came over and Peter managed to refrain from shrugging out from under his hand. "We're not trying to lecture you. We just worry. You know that, right?"

 

"Yeah," Peter agreed flatly, trying to tell himself to calm down. They just wanted him to be safe, he told himself. They just wanted him to be healthy. He shouldn't get mad over that.

 

"Sorry, kid," Tony apologized, which was a surprise in and of itself. The genius didn't apologize to _anybody_ very much, let alone some no-account kid who was squatting under his roof. He shrugged.

 

"It's whatever," He said, fishing his phone out again and sending off a few texts to the Chameleon.

 

**PP: Anything interesting going on out there?**

**PP: Any leads on the clones?**

 

There wasn't an answer immediately, so Peter set the phone aside, turning to watch as Bruce reluctantly headed back over to the sink, where he started scrubbing his hands clean.

 

"What are you cooking, boys?" Natasha's voice came from behind Peter, and he cast a glance towards her.

 

“I was thinking I’d make pakoras,” Bruce offered from where he was assembling vegetables on the counter. Natasha joined them at the table, settling down next to Peter.

 

“Sounds great,” That was Cap, coming in behind Natasha. “Do you need any help?”

 

“Sure,” Bruce agreed. “If you want to start sifting flour, that would be great.”

 

“No problem.” Cap wandered over to the counter, his bulk mostly blocking Peter’s view of the proceedings, so he turned to his company at the table: Tony and Natasha.

 

“Is there anybody else hanging around the tower today?” Peter asked, fingers tapping against the phone case as he waited for a response from the Chameleon. Not that he really wanted to read it in front of Natasha.

 

“Clint’s around,” Nat answered, leaning back comfortably in her chair. “Somewhere. Barnes is in his room, I think. Thor’s not here. Sam’s at work.”

 

“I keep telling him that I’ll pay for his expenses, if he would just move in and be a full time Avenger,” Tony sighed, examining his nails. “But he insists that he _likes_ working where he does. Lunatic. Nobody _likes_ to work.”

 

“We have to practically wrestle you out of your lab, most of the time,” Natasha reminded him with a raised eyebrow.

 

“That’s not work,” Tony drawled in response. “That’s play.” Natasha snorted, and Peter heard, out in the common room, the elevator open.

 

“You guys had better not be partying without me,” Clint called from the other room, and Peter’s head lowered a little as his thoughts inevitably turned to the funeral. It seemed like the man reminded him of that a lot lately. Not on purpose, or anything— he just couldn’t seem to look at the man without remembering standing at Gwen’s grave site with Clint’s arm wrapped around his shoulders.

 

It hurt to think about, no matter how empty he felt under it.

 

“It’s not a party until you show up anyway,” Natasha remarked dryly as Clint paraded through the door.

 

“That’s what they tell me,” Clint agreed, fiddling with one hearing aid as he took the seat next to Tony, across from Natasha. “Hey, kid,” He nodded at Peter, who nodded hesitantly back. “How’s it going?”

 

“It’s going,” Peter answered, and it was the best he could offer. Clint frowned slightly, but didn’t comment.

 

“Good, good,” He leaned on both elbows against the table, peering around Tony to catch sight of Steve and Dr. Banner over at the countertops. “What are you cooking?”

 

“Pakoras,” Dr. Banner answered, turning so that Clint could see his face. Peter liked that he seemed to do it without even thinking. He wondered how long, exactly, they had all known each other. A long time, he was sure. After all, the Avengers had been together for years, and he was pretty sure that some of these guys had known each other before then. He just wasn’t sure who.

 

“Sounds great.” Clint opened his mouth again, then yelped, jumping in his seat as his head swiveled around to aim a glare at Natasha. “Watch your heels, those things are sharp.”

 

“You keep kicking me,” Natasha told him sweetly. “You know, if you wouldn’t swing your legs like a child, we could avoid situations like this.”

 

“Come on, Nat, it was an accident, grow up,” Clint scoffed, and Peter propped his cheek against one hand as the two of them bickered.

 

“Guys, never fight in front of the kids,” Tony advised them, winking at Peter, who just rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to show a united front. Haven’t you ever read a parenting book?”

 

“No,” Clint shot him a look. “Have you?”

 

“Well, no, but I’m not the dad, here.”

 

“And I am?” Clint demanded. “Definitely not. I’ve already claimed the position of weird uncle. Surely we’ve defined this stupid, dysfunctional family of ours by now.”

 

“Sure,” Natasha agreed, voice flat. “Steve is the dad and Barnes is the mom, Sam is Steve’s mistress, Tony is the baby, Bruce is his older, more mature brother, I’m the cool older sister, Clint is the weird uncle, and Thor is the dog.”

 

“I don’t know,” Peter objected, and suddenly had all eyes turned to him. “I think… Steve and Bucky are more like brothers, and Sam is their brother, too. I think that… Nat, you’re the cool, but authoritative single mom. Clint is _your_ brother. Tony and Bruce are… um. Your stepkids. And Thor is the dog.” He ended his assessment with a grin.

 

“How did I end up in charge of this whole rat’s nest of horror?” Natasha asked him, sounding amused, now.

 

“Well, you’re the most mature,” Peter answered, which raised several cries of protest from some of the others, most notably Tony and Clint. “And you look out for everybody. You’re like… a mama bear type, you know? Fiercely protective, tough as nails, but you care about everybody else.”

 

Natasha shot him a look that bordered on affectionate before reaching over and rubbing her knuckles against the top of his head until he ducked out from under her hand.

 

“Well I guess that makes _you_ the baby. Welcome to the family, squirt,” Natasha told him, jostling his shoulder, and, contrary to the warmth he would have expected, he felt a flood of cold run through his veins.

 

Family, he thought, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. A family. He couldn’t— he— he—

 

“Kid,” Tony’s voice reached through the rapidly building fog in his brain and his head snapped up as he realized that everyone in the kitchen was staring at him. “Breathe.”

 

Breathe? He was breathing, right? What else could that loud, rasping sound be? Oh— he meant breathe _regularly_. But he couldn’t, he realized as his fingers closed on the edge of the table and he bent over, struggling to breathe through the spandex of his mask.

 

“Not again,” He managed to wheeze, and Natasha abruptly stood.

 

“Everybody out.”

 

There was a general shuffling as the rest of the Avengers hurried out of the room, and then Natasha was sitting next to him again, one hand on his shoulder.

 

“Lift your mask up so you can have a clear airway,” she instructed him, and he didn’t hesitate to obey. “Good. It’s okay, Spidey. You’re okay. Turn to face me.” Peter swung around in his chair, his knees knocking against hers as she gripped both of his shoulders tightly. “Focus on my hands,” she suggested, and she flexed one finger against the hoodie he was wearing, then the one next to it, all the way down to the pinky of the opposite hand. “Again,” she told him, going back the other way. “Good, Spidey, good.”

 

He sucked in another sharp breath. He didn’t _feel_ good, he thought, humiliation managing to rise to the surface of his emotions as Natasha ran down the line of fingers again.

 

“Focus, Spidey,” She told him, voice sharp, but as he tried to whimper out a response, she surprised him by yanking him into a tight hug. Peter hesitated, then wrapped his arms around her, too, heaving gasps against her shoulder. “You’re okay, Spidey, you’re okay. I’m here with you, solnyshko.”

 

She held him, rubbing at his back with one hand, as Peter dissolved into a puddle of panic in her lap. It didn’t make sense, his racing mind claimed. He wasn’t even upset. He wasn’t scared. He was just so _empty_ and his body was _panicking_ just because someone had mentioned being a part of a family again.

 

Peter couldn’t _feel_. He couldn’t figure out why he didn’t feel the emotions that a panic attack usually hit him with. He was so hollow, and that was the scariest part, but even that got sucked away into nothingness.

 

But he was calming down, now, and his brain was chanting at him to catch his breath, get some air, relieve the tight, restrictive feeling in his chest and throat, so he did, letting Natasha tuck him under her chin, her cheek resting against the top of his head.

 

“I wish you would talk to us,” He heard her whisper. “I wish you would tell us what was wrong. We want to help you, Spidey. We care about you.”

 

“You shouldn’t,” Peter mumbled, and her hand stilled for a moment before resuming its slow, comforting path up and down his back. She was reminding him, a little, of May, and that sent a throbbing to his chest that he wished he _could_ feel. It was so wrong of him, not to feel all the grief and the guilt that he had before. His family was dead, he berated himself. His girlfriend was dead. And he didn’t even grieve for them, now.

 

“Why not?” Natasha asked, her voice still quiet. “We’ve known you long enough, now, to care, I think. You’ve wormed your way into our hearts, Spider-Man, and we only want to see you happy again. You know that, right?”

 

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Peter’s forehead pressed against her shoulder and he shuddered. “It’s… not safe.”

 

Natasha’s low chuckle wasn’t derisive, not by a long shot. He could hear the affection in it, and he hated it.

 

“It’s not safe? Don’t worry, Spidey, I think we can take care of ourselves.” Peter didn’t answer, so she continued. “If it’s dangerous to care for you, then you’ve come to the right group of people. We, more than anyone else, can find a safe way to love you. Now, tell me, Spidey. What’s so dangerous about you?”

 

Peter shrugged one shoulder, but she stayed quiet, waiting for a response. He sighed, then mumbled into her shirt, ashamed of his stupid theory that he’d been building over the past two weeks.

 

“What was that?” Natasha prompted him, leaning away enough that his mouth wasn’t pressed into the cotton of her shirt.

 

“I think I might be cursed,” Peter repeated reluctantly, pulling out of her arms, shoulders high as he tried to gauge her expression.

 

To his surprise, instead of more amusement, or incredulity, or scorn, he saw a serious look of contemplation. “Could you explain further?”

 

Peter’s fists clenched in his lap and he dropped his head, eyes shut under his goggles. “I don’t know. It’s just… my family has always had this bad luck. And now… there have been a lot of deaths in the last year. Everyone—” His voice cut off for a moment and he had to swallow past the tightness in his throat before he could continue. “Everyone in my family is dead. Gwen Stacy is dead. The only person I have left… is Peter Parker.” It wasn’t untrue, he told himself as he heard Natasha let out a long, slow breath. It was just even lonelier than Natasha would assume. “I have to keep him safe, and to do that, I have to keep him hidden. I can’t even see him. He doesn’t get to see anyone he cares about. And until we get everything sorted out for him, he’s not _safe_ , and he’ll have to _stay_ hidden.”

 

“Tell me what we can do to help Peter,” Nat prompted him. “Where is he? What does he need?”

 

Peter shook his head. “Nothing. There’s nothing. All that can be done for Peter right now is just… we just have to wait.”

 

“What are you waiting for?”

 

Peter shook his head again, fingers lacing together tightly. After a few beats of silence, Natasha relented.

 

“Okay. Well, if that changes, let us know. We want to help. Until then, how about we try and find out about this curse for you?”

 

Peter looked up, feeling cynical. “What do you mean?”

 

“We know a guy,” Natasha assured him. “He can help. Do you mind if I call Tony back in here?”

 

“That’s fine,” Peter agreed, puzzled, but he didn’t ask questions for the moment. He just waited silently, embarrassed about having another breakdown in front of the Avengers as Natasha called Tony’s name.

 

The scientist appeared in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over his chest and brow drawn. “You okay, kid?” Tony asked him, first thing, and Peter nodded once. It was touching, to see that the man really cared, but it was also just… so humiliating.  
  
“Stark,” Natasha drew his attention, then. “You’re free tonight, right?” Mr. Stark shrugged, then nodded.

 

“Should be. I don’t see why not. Why?” It was a testament to his worry, Peter managed to think wryly, that he didn’t try and make an innuendo out of the question. Usually he would have been all over that.

 

“I need you to take Spidey here down to the Sanctum.”

 

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “What for?”

 

“He needs to see the doctor.”

 

“A doctor,” Peter repeated, sickness coiling in his stomach. “You’re taking me to a doctor?” A shrink, probably, Peter told himself bitterly. He shouldn't be surprised that Natasha thought he was insane. It was certainly a more reasonable explanation than a curse.

 

“Not like that, Spidey,” Mr. Stark assured him. “Nat’s just being cryptic because she thinks it’s fun. He’s a doctor, but these days he pays the bill by being Earth’s Sorcerer Supreme.”

 

“Dr. Strange,” Peter realized. “You’re talking about Dr. Strange.”

 

“Bingo,” Tony agreed, giving him a forced smile. “If you need help with magic, he’s your guy.”

 

“How do you know Dr. Strange?” Peter asked, those bees knocking around inside him again.

 

“Well, when you’re rich and successful, you tend to travel in certain circles,” Tony informed him, leaning against the door frame. “He was also rich and successful, at one point, although he doesn’t dabble much in the lifestyle anymore. Plus, the community of superheroes in New York might be large, compared to other places, but there are still enough of us to know each other.”

 

“Oh, right,” Peter nodded, feeling the bowl inside him growing a little shallower. “So I get to meet him? Cool. When?”

 

“Well, I’ll give him a call, find out when he’s available,” Tony shrugged. “It might be a couple days, if it’s not an emergency. Is it an emergency, kid?”

 

“No,” Peter blurted quickly, shaking his head. “No, I can wait a couple of days. Just, um, keep me updated?”

 

“You know it,” Tony gave him a firm nod, then stepped back into the kitchen as Peter felt the knot in his chest loosen a little.

 

“Thanks, guys.” His phone vibrated against the table and his eyes fell to it. “Um… I think I’m gonna go sit in the living room. Don’t want to interrupt again while Dr. Banner’s cooking,” he offered weakly, scooping up his phone and retreating to the living room. He was a little mortified to find Dr. Banner and Steve talking right outside, clearly trying to pretend that they hadn’t been listening.

 

He bustled past, head low, but he could feel their eyes on him as he crossed back to the couch he’d inhabited not long ago, checking the texts on his phone.

 

**DS: I’m working on it, Peter. Please try to be patient. You know that I’ll let you know whenever I have anything concrete for you. For now, just stay put. I need you to stay out of sight as much as possible, alright? I know that it might be hard, being cooped up there, but please try your best.**

**DS: I’m working very hard for you, Peter, and my work will be much easier to accomplish if I know that you’re safely out of harm’s way.**

**PP: Yeah**

**PP: Okay**

**PP: Ill be here whenever you have something**

**PP: Just let me know**

 

Peter sighed, dropping his head back and letting his hands fall listlessly to his sides. He heard the elevator open again, but he sat still as footsteps approached. He knew who was coming.

 

“Hey, kid,” Bucky’s gruff voice came from above him, and Peter flinched as the man flicked his nose. “You’d better not be sleeping again.”

 

“No, I’m not sleeping,” Peter assured him, pushing his hand away. “What’s up?”

 

“Not much.” Bucky leaned against the back of the couch, looking down at him. “How’re you doing, kid?”

 

“Good,” Peter promised. “Great.”

 

Bucky frowned down at him, but seemed to let it go, at least for the moment.

 

“Kid, I think you should talk to someone about what’s been going on.”

 

Or maybe not.

 

Peter sat up, turning halfway around on the couch so he could look at Bucky properly. “What? What do you mean?” He asked, frowning self-consciously.

 

“Sam is experienced with PTSD,” Bucky told him, arms folded sternly. “And Bruce has been working with Tony on his issues for years. I think either one of them would be willing to help you out. You wouldn’t even have to take your issues outside of the tower. They wouldn’t tell anyone else what you two talked about. I think you should do it.”

 

“I— you want me to do therapy?”

 

“Yes.” Bucky stared at him expressionlessly, those eyes just as intense as always. Peter glanced towards the kitchen door, but he couldn’t see anyone watching him. He could hear everyone in the kitchen chatting, so he had to assume that they were as unmonitored as they could be, with JARVIS’s ever present eye still on them.

 

“I… I don’t know, Bucky,” Peter mumbled, looking down. “I think I’m okay. I just need to…”

 

“To what, kid?” Bucky’s eyebrows lifted. “You think you’re going to be able to do this all on your own? Let me tell you from experience, it’s not easy.”

 

Silence fell for a few moments as Peter stared at the floor, fingers clenched. “Did you ever get therapy?”

 

“Well, kid,” Bucky sighed. “I never managed it, myself. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, after all, and after everything I did as the Winter Soldier, there wasn’t really anyone who knew how to help. But that’s not the case for you.” His voice sounded slightly pained. “Learn from my mistakes, Spidey. Get help while you have the chance. There are people who want to help you here. People who _can_ help you. It would be dumb of you not to take the up on it. I know you’re not sure about it. But just… think about it, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Peter relented, looking back up at Bucky in time to see a flash of relief run across his face before disappearing again. “I’ll think about it.”

 

“Thanks, kid.” Bucky sniffed. “They cooking in there? Good. You want to watch some TV while we wait?” He rounded the couch and flopped down next to where Peter had been sitting.

 

“TV,” Peter repeated, then turned to sit back down next to Bucky. “Sure. That sounds good.”

 

It turned out to be longer than a few days before he got to meet Dr. Strange: something about dealing with an extraplanar threat or something, and it kept him from being able to host them for nearly two weeks.

 

Perils of superhero life, Peter thought. There was always _something._

 

He was the exception to the rule these days, he had to acknowledge. The Avengers insisted that he not go out and patrol, and he found that he had no inclination to object. Occasionally he would think of the people he was supposed to be helping and crumble under the weight of the guilt, but mostly he just tried not to think about it.

 

There had been no big missions for the Avengers, and certainly he wouldn’t have been invited along even if there were. He was a mess and he knew it. Although Mr. Stark had discretely left an upgraded suit out where he could find it, Peter couldn’t bring himself to try it on.

 

Sometimes he would hold the new mask in his hands and stare at it from behind his old one. It was very nearly identical to the one he still wore every day, if one discounted the fact that it was clearly of higher quality. Still, most of the time it just looked like an object: fabric to hide his identity, goggles that would crack less frequently, he was sure, with his famous web design over it.

 

But sometimes it felt malicious, and he had to tuck it under the suit as he irrationally imagined that it was watching him.

 

So he hadn’t been out to patrol. He hadn’t had any fights. He was just… taking it easy, he told himself. Bruce said that he was allowed to take it easy, sometimes. He didn’t have to push himself the way he had been.

 

He thought of their first session together, on May 4th. He remembered because he had made a Star Wars joke and Bruce had laughed.

 

_“We have confidentiality, right?” Peter had asked as the laughter died down, shifting uncomfortably in Bruce’s office, despite the fact that the chair he’d been provided was more than comfortable. “You won’t tell anybody what I say, no matter what? Even if it’s something illegal? And you won’t tell anyone anything you find out about my identity?”_

 

_“That’s right, Spidey,” Bruce nodded. “Anything you say is between you and me, I swear. JARVIS is turned off in this room, for now, so nobody can even access any kind of record of what you say here._

 

_Peter nodded jerkily, fiddling with the zipper of the hoodie he was wearing. He didn’t know where all of these clothes kept coming from, but he didn’t ask. He just knew that every time he managed to drag himself into the shower, the same one every time, there was a new set of clothes on the counter. “That’s good,” He stared down at his shoes. “Good. I… there’s a lot of things about me that I should probably tell you, but I don’t want anybody else to know. I don’t want anybody to… I don’t know, pity me or anything. And I’m not going to give up my identity, so… try not to figure it out?”_

 

_“I understand,” Bruce had agreed, and Peter had sucked in a deep breath, starting at the beginning. He left out names, but he told him everything else._

 

_His parents, when he was eight years old._

 

_The spider bite._

 

_Uncle Ben, April 28th, just a few weeks later._

 

_Getting a girlfriend in October of that year._

 

_Aunt May, January 1st, 2018._

 

_Secretly living half with Gwen, and half on the streets._

 

_Deadpool hunting him, finally shooting and unmasking him in March._

 

_Gwen, on April 13th._

 

_His subsequent mad hunt for Doc Ock, ending with a costly victory and being chased to the Avenger’s Tower._

 

_By the time he had finished, Bruce had been staring at him misty-eyed, fingers laced together. Peter let his gaze fall: that was exactly the kind of look he’d been hoping to avoid. But, miraculously, he felt a little better for having told him so much._

 

“We’re here,” That was Tony’s voice, snapping him out of his memories, and Peter shot him a look as the frighteningly expensive car they were in slowed. Tony nodded out Peter’s window as the car idled next to a meter. “That’s it: The New York Sanctum.”

 

“Doctor Strange is in there?” Peter asked, peering up at the ornately decorated building. It looked very imposing, if he was honest with himself.

 

“That’s right, buttercup.” Tony shut the car off, popping his door open and stepping out. Peter reluctantly followed, pulling up the hood of his sweater to cover his mask. He didn’t really want anybody to spot Spider-Man, right now. Tony came up next to Peter, nudging him in the side with one elbow. “You look nervous. Don’t worry, kid, the Doctor is a respectable dude. He wouldn’t mess you up on purpose or anything, and from what I understand, he’s pretty damn good at getting the job done, so even though magic is fakey bullshit, he won’t mess you up on accident, either.”

 

“Fakey bullshit,” A voice drawled from the building, and Peter realized abruptly that the front door was open. Standing there was a man of impressive stature and an even more impressive fluttering cape. “You flatter me, Mr. Stark.” His gaze openly turned to Peter, and the teen felt like a shrinking violet for a moment. “And you must be Spider-Man. Come in.” He turned and disappeared further into the building, cape snapping smartly behind him.

 

“Fucking showman,” Mr. Stark warned him in a murmur, rolling his eyes before leading the way inside. Peter managed a faint smile under his mask.

 

Just inside the door was an entry hall, but only a few steps inside and they were, instead, in a sitting room. Peter looked over his shoulder, but he didn’t see the front door. When he turned back around. Doctor Strange was in front of him.

 

“Spider-Man,” He nodded graciously, extending his hand for Peter to shake. “My apologies that it took me so long to be able to see you.”

 

“Oh— it’s cool,” Peter gripped his hand firmly, hoping to make a good impression on the _Sorcerer Supreme of Earth._ “I get it, you know? Things happen.”

 

“Exactly,” Doctor Strange shook hands with Tony, too, who then sat, looking vaguely put off by the room around them, which definitely hadn’t existed before. At least, not where it was currently existing. “Can I offer you any refreshments, gentlemen?”

 

“Pass,” Tony was stroking his beard, eyeing Strange’s contemplatively. “Don’t give the kid anything with caffeine, either, he’s already too hopped up.”

 

Peter shot Tony a dirty look that was completely wasted, thanks to his mask. “I’m good,” he said, crossing his arms firmly over his chest as his toes curled anxiously in his shoes.

 

“Alright. “Well, Mr. Stark, if you don’t mind, Spider-Man and I need to talk in private, I believe. We’ll be back shortly.” He nodded at Peter. “Right this way,” He said, holding out his hand towards the door closest to him, and as Peter took a step forward he found himself in a quiet corner of a library.

 

Baffling, he thought, blinking, as he tried to reorient himself.

 

“Please, have a seat,” Doctor Strange was already settled in an antique-looking armchair, and Peter hesitantly sat down in the one across from him. “I hear that you might be having problems with a curse.”

 

Peter nodded, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Uh— maybe. I don’t really know much of anything about curses. I was just kind of throwing it out there, at the time, and the Avengers suggested that I see you about it. Do you know how to um… break curses?”

 

“I do,” Doctor Strange agreed evenly, eyeing him contemplatively. “The first step, of course, would be ascertaining that you actually _have_ a curse, and the second would be determining its nature, but then, once we knew those things, I should be able to do something about it.”

 

Peter felt his heart lift a little and he nodded. “Great— that’s great. I really appreciate it.”

 

“So tell me about this curse,” Doctor Strange was abruptly at one of the bookshelves nearby, flipping through a thick tome, and Peter blinked, eyes darting to him.

 

“Oh— um. Well, my family has had, um, bad luck for as long as I can remember,” Peter forced an uncomfortable laugh. “It sounds kind of stupid, saying it out loud like this. But we could always count on bad things to happen. And I mean, at this point, my parents, my aunt and uncle, and the woman I thought I was going to marry… they’re all dead.” His voice choked off for a moment, but, mercifully, Doctor Strange didn’t press him.

 

Peter cleared his throat and kept going. “And all but the thing with my parents have been in the last year alone. So I’m worried, now, that there really might be some kind of curse on my family. I don’t know if bad luck curses or death curses or anything are real, but I’m worried that it’s going to get anyone else I try to get close to.”

 

He lowered his eyes to the floor, fingers clenching tight. “And yeah, it sounds stupid, but… I don’t really want to take any chances.”

 

“Understandable,” Doctor Strange finally spoke, settling back down across from him, this time without the use of magic. “Well if that’s the case, we definitely want to put a stop to it. Close your eyes, this will be bright.” Peter obeyed as Doctor Strange lifted one hand, the other holding up the book to where he could see the open page. There was a fizzing, crackling sound, and Peter was tempted to look, but he could see the bright white light along the crack of his eyelid and he thought better of it. Peter heard a quiet “Hmm,” as the light faded.

 

“What is it?” He prompted, feeling his nerves rising.

 

“Hold on.” There was a sound kind of like a firework and Peter jumped in his seat, but then after another flash, the light faded. “Alright. You can open your eyes.”

 

Peter did so, blinking away spots. “So? What’s the diagnosis, Doc?” He searched out Doctor Strange’s face, and saw a wry look there.

 

“No curse.”

 

Peter’s stomach dropped. “What? Are you sure?”

 

“I’m sure,” Doctor Strange assured him, looking slightly apologetic. “It looks like you’ve just had a string of genuine bad luck. I’m sorry about that.”

 

Peter looked down. So there wasn’t going to be any help for it, he thought morosely, but then Doctor Strange said something else.

 

“I’m sorry I can’t help,” he offered, rising to his feet again. “But at least you know that it’s safe to make a new family for yourself.” Peter looked up at him, surprised, and smiled hesitantly.

 

“Yeah,” He agreed as a door opened to his left, revealing Tony still sitting in the room on the other side. “I guess that’s true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to WiggleWolf27 for beta-ing this chapter!! What a Cool Cat! :D
> 
> JOIN MY DISCORD and meet all the cool folks already in there! I post extras, sometimes there's art, we discuss things that are behind the scenes or implied in the fic... it's a good time. We'd love to have you there!! You can join here >> https://discord.gg/4hdXVw4


	15. A Bowl With a Butterfly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'd... please be forgiving, haha.

**June**

 

_Peter and Gwen sat side by side on the couch, fingers tapping at their controllers._

 

_“Clint showed me this game,” Peter told her, a little grin on his face. “He’s really good at it. He said I needed to practice so he let me take it home.”_

 

 _“That’s so awesome,” Gwen jammed her buttons, brows furrowing with concentration. “Pretty impressive that he manages to stand up to_ you _in video games.”_

 

_“He’s good,” Peter agreed. “Really good. It’s a lot of fun, getting to hang out with him.”_

 

_“Do you see him a lot?”_

 

_“Yeah,” Peter agreed. “We usually play video games or watch dumb television shows or something, but every once in a while he takes me to do target practice. It’s really great.”_

 

_“Does he have you shooting a bow?” Gwen pressed, and Peter could see her grinning out of the corner of her eye. “Or a gun?”_

 

_“Nah,” Peter snickered. “He says I’d probably end up breaking the bow and I don’t really want to learn to shoot a gun. We’re just working on my accuracy with the webs.”_

 

_“That’s good,” Gwen’s lips pursed in his periphery. “Is it working at all?”_

 

_“Definitely,” Peter assured her. “I’m getting pretty good at catching anything he throws. He keeps saying he’s going to teach me how to catch arrows, but I’m not sure it’s possible.”_

 

_“They move so fast,” Gwen shot him a glance. “He’s got to be kidding.”_

 

_“Maybe,” Peter said thoughtfully. “It’s hard to tell with that guy, sometimes.”_

 

_“Avengers are weird, huh?”_

 

_“So weird.”_

 

\---

 

It was hot outside, but that didn’t mean much to Peter. The air-conditioned interior of the tower was unaffected by the eighty-two degree day outside, and Peter could feel the cool air blowing from the vents from where he sat next to one of the large, bullet-proof panes of glass. He hadn’t been outside the tower in over a month, now.

 

He was getting a little stir-crazy.

 

It didn’t help that the Avengers had been called away on a mission.

 

Peter stared morosely out the window, cheek propped against his fist. He wanted to go outside, he thought ruefully, shooting a plaintive gaze towards the patches of green that marked the parks of the city. It sucked, he sighed to himself, being stuck inside by himself.

 

The door burst open, startling Peter out of his reverie as he whipped his head around, trying to process the roaring sound he could hear.

 

Blonde hair, a billowing cape, intimidating musculature. Oh, it was Thor. That explained the noise: he was shouting.

 

"Spider-Man!" He has a grin spread over his bearded face, as if he were genuinely pleased to see Peter. It would be flattering if Peter weren't sure that Thor must look at everyone that way. There was a reason they'd dubbed him the dog of their weird little Avengers family, after all. The resemblance to a golden retriever in both appearance and temperament was striking. "You're here! Excellent!" He crossed the room in distressingly few strides, talking the whole way. "I feared that there would be no one here-- when JARVIS told me that the others had been called away, I feared that I would have to handle this disturbance on my own. And while I certainly would have no trouble," His chest puffed up a little with pride, and Peter had to laugh internally at the size of Thor's ego. But, he supposed, the guy was a god. It wasn't exactly unreasonable to have a big ego in his circumstances. "What's the point of coming to Midgard if not to fight monsters in the company of one's friends?"  


 

Peter was somewhat shell shocked, trying to digest all of that, but after a few moments he managed to reply. "The hot dogs are pretty good."

 

Thor threw back his head with laughter, apparently deeming the joke good enough to earn Peter a slap on the shoulder that knocked the air out of him. "True enough, my friend! But the situation still stands. Trouble is afoot! Come with me to vanquish it."

 

"Trouble, huh?" Peters interest piqued and he stood, a butterfly inside the bowl in his chest. Excitement, he recognized. "Yeah, okay. What's going on?"  
  
"No time to explain," The man told him urgently, although based on the previous chatter, Peter suspected that it was mostly for theatric's sake. "We must go at once-- to Central Park!" He turned on his heel, cloak fluttering majestically behind him in a way that filled Peter with enough wonder to momentarily feel like an actual person. As Peter hurried to follow him, he paused in the doorway to glance over his shoulder. "It might be something of a large job," He mused. "Do you know of anyone else who might be willing to help?"

 

Peter looked down at the phone in his hand, a grin spreading over his face under his mask.

 

"Yeah, maybe so. I'll make the call on the way."

 

"Excellent!" Thor turned forward again to strike out towards the open air deck. Peter followed, electricity tingling under his skin. He was getting out, he thought eagerly. And he would be with Thor, so he would certainly be alright if any fake Avengers reared their heads. It certainly wouldn't be difficult to tell them from the originals, with all the others in Lithuania.

 

Peter stepped outside into the hot New York City air and breathed it in slowly, feeling the tension that had built up in  his shoulders over the last month relaxing. It felt so good to be outside again, he thought with a deep sense of pleasure. He closed his eyes to soak it all in. He could hear Thor whirling his hammer nearby, clearly preparing to launch himself into the air, but Peter took his time,  stretching out his body. He wasn't wearing his spider-suit, he acknowledged vaguely, but that was okay. He wasn't sure he wanted to put a suit on anyway. The mask was more than enough.

 

Thor was gone by the time he opened his eyes, just a speck rapidly disappearing through the buildings of the city. Peter huffed a laugh, jamming a contact in his phone and sticking it to his ear before throwing himself off the balcony.

 

He fell, feeling the air whipping past his body, jostling him back and forth as he let his arms and legs splay. The fabric of his tee shirt and sweatpants flapped around him, alien in comparison to his skintight spandex, but nothing had ever felt more natural than throwing his arm out to sling a web, catching flawlessly against the side of a building.  
  
Then he was arching downwards, a pendulum on a string. He swung low, letting his whole body stretch into the movement, breath catching with excitement. A month, he thought. A month without this. How had he managed it?  
  
He pulled up and threw the second line, hearing people calling his name down below. They hadn't done that, much, before. Not like this. He wondered what they thought of his disappearance. The Avengers had kept him pretty sheltered from the news, and now he couldn't help but wonder if they thought he had died.

 

Peter hit the end of his web and let go, flipping through the air as he transitioned easily from the upswing into the down, and he couldn't help the whoop that escaped his lips as he swung downwards again.

 

Peter couldn't say for sure what he intended to do about his identity as Spider-Man, but at least he knew one thing for sure: this was _right_.

 

Then the phone stopped ringing.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Jessie!" Peter had to shout to be heard over the roaring wind. "It's Spidey! Do you want to fight some monsters?"

 

"What? Monsters?" She sounded baffled, critical, but also a little interested.

 

"Uh-- maybe? To be honest I didn't really get a full briefing, but Thor invited me to come to Central Park to fight something with him. Do you want in?"

 

"Thor? Like, the thunder god?"

 

"That's the one!"

 

"I don't think I can afford to miss this," Jessica snorted. "Central Park? I guess I'll just follow the lightning strikes."

 

"Good plan," Peter agreed with a laugh. "I'm getting close-- gotta go! See you soon!"

 

"Sure, Spidey," Jessica agreed, and he heard a beep that announced she had hung up. He left the phone where it was, for the moment, concentrating instead on swinging faster towards the park.

 

He could see the disturbance, now.

 

Central Park was completely overgrown, trees twice their size and covered in vines. Grass as high as Peter's hips, if he were to land, and flowering plants were everywhere. It looked like a jungle, if he were honest.

 

Lightning struck the ground up ahead, starling a laugh out of Peter, and he threw himself into the park, abandoning buildings in order to swing off of trees instead. It was convenient, actually, that they were so large, Peter thought with a grin.

 

He cleared the trees very suddenly, finding himself in a large open green. In the middle was a huge plant.

 

"Unbelievable!" Peter yelped, spotting Thor bashing at it with his hammer as it attempted to swallow him. Some kind of Venus Flytrap, Peter thought with amazement, except it had to be three stories tall, venom dripping viscously from its mouth and sizzling onto the ground. "What is with this city and weird experiments gone wrong?" Peter demanded of the air, tucking his phone back into his belt when he got a chance so that he would be able to concentrate on the challenge ahead.

 

The thing was swaying back and forth as Thor leapt back from it, examining it. It didn't look like bashing at the head was having much effect, Peter noticed, aside from bruising the vividly colored petals surrounding its head.

 

Okay, Peter thought as he hit the ground in a roll, popping up across the green from Thor. Okay. Too far away to swing at. That was fine. There were other things to do. He had more tricks in his bag.

 

"Hey!" Peter called, waving his arms in the air. The plant took no notice of him, but he managed to attract Thor's attention. "Keep it distracted!"

 

Distantly, he heard Thor call back. " _What?_ "

 

"Keep it distracted!"

 

Another muffled, one-word shout.

 

"Keep! It! Distracted!"

 

Thor stared at him for a moment, then thrust one fist into the air. It took Peter a moment to realize that Thor was giving him a thumbs up, and that pulled another laugh out of him. He really liked Thor, he decided, watching as the man charged straight at the roots. The war-cry he was emitting was much more audible than the words from before.

 

As the plant's full attention seemed to focus once more on Thor, Peter ran forward, covering the ground between it and him very quickly. It still weirded him out, more than a year after he got his powers, that he could move so fast.

 

As the head ducked to snap at Thor again, Peter leapt, launching himself up to the top of its head. There, he stuck himself firmly to it, determined not to get swallowed. That drool looked... pretty corrosive. And he had already filled his quota on getting doused in corrosive materials in front of Avengers, in his opinion.

 

Peter pulled back a fist and punched as hard as he could, plunging his fist elbow deep in plant matter and, as a result, spraying himself in vegetable juice.

 

 _Dang_ it.

 

"Ugh!" He reared back, disgusted. He could hear Thor laughing down below. At least he was wearing mask, he thought with a wry twist to his grin. So it hadn't gotten into his mouth.

 

Oh, ugh, gross, he spoke too soon, it was seeping through. He hoped that this stuff wasn't as bad as the drool.

 

There was a rush of air overhead and Peter looked up just in time to spot Jessica hit the plant hard, and his world lurched as she shoved with both hands, forcing the head all the way to the ground.

 

The impact was enough to knock Peter loose, sending him bouncing through the tall grasses, and by the time he struggled to his feet, the thing was lifting its head again, shaking it dazedly. What _was_ this thing, Peter had to wonder.

 

"Jess!" He called, beaming under his mask. She looked powerful, even with her arms splattered with plant guts, and Peter could only hope that he looked half as cool. No— one quarter as cool. Ah, might as well cut his losses and go for one-tenth. She looked over at him, raising a hand in greeting, but then her attention was drawn by Thor’s bellowing. Peter couldn’t hear what he was saying, from where he was, but he could see Jess puffing up with pride.

  


Peter had to grin at the sight. He could picture Jessica in class, frowning down at her desk, listless and bored. He could imagine her as she had been the night she’d saved him: determined, grim, and slightly gray-faced. He’d never seen her like this, though. Now, she looked… different. She didn’t look like a teenage girl from Queens. She looked like…

 

She looked like a superhero.

 

Peter felt a surge of admiration for her. He wondered if she would ever take up the business for real. He kind of found that he hoped she did.

 

But then the plant was shaking more violently and she lifted into the air, light as a feather, to avoid getting thrown. Peter saw what was going to happen before she did and he dashed forward, shooting a web towards her. It caught one of her legs and he hauled her out of the way as the jaws of the plant snapped shut on empty air. He could hear a dissatisfied rumble coming from it, this close, and he had to curse the scientists of New York City once again. Was this thing some kind of plant-animal crossbreed? Honestly, who came up with this stuff?

 

Thor took the opportunity to call down another strike of lightning, and Peter felt the air sizzling around them. To say that the sensation was electric would be too cliche, even for him, but that didn’t stop Peter from snickering to himself all the same as the hairs on his arms stood up.  
  
As the imprint faded from his eye and the world became visible again, Peter was somewhat disappointed to find that, although a small part of the plant seem to have singed, it hadn’t killed it. Peter frowned irritably under his mask, not sure how much damage this thing could soak up before it started showing it. Surely three super strong super heroes could get this done on their own.

 

They could rip it up from the roots, Peter thought with amusement, watching as Jessica tried to detach the strand of webbing from her leg and only ended up getting her hand stuck to it. But it would probably still be alive. And with those weird sounds it was making, he was worried that it might manage to walk around if they did manage to uproot it.

 

Maybe they could go to the closest hardware store and buy up all of their weed killer. They could probably charge it to Stark Tower, he thought with a snicker, beckoning Jess down towards him. She gave him a scowl, but landed next to him and allowed Peter to cut the webbing away himself.

 

“What’s the plan, here, Parker?” She prompted him. Peter looked over towards Thor, who was jogging across the green towards them, looking cheerful. Peter always suspected that a battle would only improve the god’s already sunny temperament.

 

“I’m not sure,” He admitted, scanning the park around them for inspiration, but nothing stuck out. It was just a sea of green. Kind of nice, if he was honest, but it would probably get pretty buggy pretty fast. And people tended to like Central Park with shorter grass, he assumed. This wouldn’t be ideal for sunbathing, for sure.

 

Especially considering the giant killer plant, Peter added, pursing his lips.

 

Thor arrived, then. “Greetings! Good of you to join us,” Thor was beaming so brightly that the comment, normally used by Peter only sarcastically, could not have been mistaken for anything but earnest. Where did the Avengers find this guy? He was really something else. Peter couldn’t help but wonder if all aliens were that way.

 

Probably not. He struck Peter as an outlier. No way all of Asgard could be like Thor.

 

“I am Thor, son of Odin,” The Asgardian was continuing as Peter stared at the plant, which seemed to have settled down now that the three of them were outside its immediate proximity. “You must be a friend of Spider-Man’s.”

 

“I’m Jessica,” Jess offered, chin held high. “I wouldn’t say we’re really friends, but he’s not the _worst_ , I guess.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” Peter huffed, but without any real poor humor behind it. It was nice having her here, even with the acerbic commentary on his personality. He kind of liked it, to be honest. He wished that he and Jessica really had gotten the chance to be friends, when he was still in school. But maybe it wasn’t too late.

 

“You never answered my question, by the way,” Jessica pointed out, nudging him.

 

“Question?”

 

“Yeah. What’s the plan?”

 

“Yes, Spider-Man, I’d also like to hear about your plan to deal with this creature,” Thor agreed, flipping his hammer idly in one hand. Peter could hear the universe bending around it and it was _weird_.

 

“I don’t hear either of you coming up with any master plans,” Peter pointed out, his own expression haughty under his mask. “So I’ll thank you very much to keep quiet in the peanut gallery.” Jessica snickered, crossing her arms.

 

“I don’t think so, buddy. You’re the one who called _me_ , remember? I get to heckle all I want. Guess you should have thought this through a little more.”

 

“Guess so,” Peter agreed with a flash of a grin before turning to face the problem again. It was sitting very still, now, low to the ground, mouth wide open. A trap position, Peter noticed. At least, if it wasn’t a _giant freaking plant_ that still managed to hover ten feet up. Peter wasn’t sure what it expected to get accomplished, all the way up there.

 

Dumb plant.

 

“Okay,” Peter threw up his hands. “So this thing is… more or less a flytrap, right? Some kind of carnivorous plant, at least. Those things are notoriously fragile.”

 

“It doesn’t seem so fragile to me,” Jessica scoffed, arms crossing. “How many times has it been struck by lightning?” She directed the question at Thor, who was staring at the plant with crossed arms, looking contemplative.

 

“Three,” He supplied helpfully, and Jessica nodded.

 

“Yeah. And it still looks pretty much fine.”

 

“True,” Peter agreed, frowning. “But maybe it still has some of the flaws of the household variety.”

 

“Household variety?” Thor looked interested at the thought, but Peter only spared a snicker for the question, instead focusing on the creature.

 

“Right. Well, one of the most common ways people accidentally kill their flytraps is by triggering it too many times,” Peter offered, waving his hands toward it. “So maybe if we just keep triggering it…”

 

“It’ll just straight up die?” Jessica asked doubtfully, arms crossing to mirror Thor.

 

“Maybe?” Peter offered hopefully. “At the very least maybe it’ll get tired and then it could be vulnerable.”

 

There were a few seconds where everyone exchanged glances, gauging each other’s expressions and their own ideas about the feasibility of the plan before Thor finally shrugged.

 

“Can’t hurt,” He offered with a roguish grin that lifted Peter’s spirits considerably. Without a second thought the man reared back and hurled his hammer towards the creature.

 

Peter shot a glance at Jessica, who looked amused before she caught him looking and made a face.

 

“Get to work, would you, Spider-Man?” She demanded, then lifted into the air as Peter laughed. He saw the mouth of the trap snap shut around the hammer in the distance, but was unsurprised as Thor’s hand opened and it ripped its way back out again, tearing a long, rumbling groan from the plant.

 

“Don’t let it catch you!” Peter called after her, hands cupped around his mouth, and she flashed him a thumbs up in response.

 

“Get to work, Spider-Man,” Thor echoed Jessica with a smirk, catching his hammer. His face twisted with disgust and he gave it a shake, sending thick globs of saliva showering onto the grass below.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter waved him off, chuckling, then broke into a run, watching as Jessica swooped through the jaws of the plant. He was next, throwing himself into an arch above the beast with a whoop of exhilaration. His Spidey sense warned him that it was rushing up to meet him, but he was moving too quickly, and he flipped out of the way of its greedy jaws before they managed to close.

 

Then the hammer whipped by him, that strange, metallic sound accompanying it as it boomeranged its way back across the field to Thor. As the jaws opened again, Jessica was on it, triggering the trap once again.

 

It was kind of incredible, Peter mused as he slung a web at the base of the jaw, hauling it open manually as he used the leverage to jump into the air above it again. The three of them working together so seamlessly, despite barely knowing each other. It was… fun. _Really_ fun.

 

For a moment, Peter was surrounded by the brightly colored flora of the plant as it tried to close on him, but then he was back in the bright blue sky in Central Park. So big, so blue, he thought, feeling his heart racing in his chest. For once, it wasn’t anxiety, he thought, looking down to where the hammer was flying by down below again. He cheered up into the sky, and he could hear the laughter of his teammates echoing around the field in response.

 

\---

 

_Peter stood outside the door, a smile on his face, waiting for it to open. It did, as it always did, and Aunt May beamed at him._

 

_“Peter, Gwen,” She exclaimed, delighted, and Gwen squeezed his hand, where he knew the Spider-Man mask was tucked inside his fist. “I’m so happy you could make it. Come inside!”_

 

_“Hi, Aunt May,” Peter stepped forward and hugged her tightly for hours, grief and joy warring nonsensically in his chest. He remembered, vaguely, her death, but it didn’t matter at that moment. This part, he reflected distantly, never changed no matter how many times he had this dream. “Thanks for having us.” He let go and made room for Gwen, who hugged Aunt May. He didn’t bother to look around; he knew what he would see. It was always the same. Instead, he moved immediately to the coat rack. “Is Uncle Ben here?”_

 

_“Of course, of course,” Aunt May fussed over him as he and Gwen hung up their coats, shaking off the summer heat. “How are the kids?” Peter hooked his Spider-Man mask onto one of the pegs, and quickly looked away from it to find Gwen. She looked like her sixteen-year-old self, tonight. Sometimes she did._

 

_“They’re good,” Peter was too young to raise kids, he thought defeatedly. He didn’t feel like he was in his thirties. He felt like a teenager. “Tony’s watching them tonight.”_

 

_“Are you sure that’s wise?” Aunt May chuckled, and Peter laughed, too, despite the deep melancholy in his chest. They were in the kitchen, watching Aunt May cook. Peter knew she and Gwen were talking, but all he could do was watch the two of them. They would never have this, he thought with a growing awareness. The Spider-Man mask was weighing him down, so he put it on the table, his arms feeling weak._

 

_There was a hand on his shoulder and Peter turned around. He was standing in the park with Uncle Ben, who hugged him like he always had, and for a few moments, Peter couldn’t breathe._

 

_“Good to see you, Pete,” He mumbled, face soft, graying hair showing no sign of the years that were supposed to have passed. Peter still couldn’t think of an answer.”_

 

_“I’m sorry,” Peter managed to gasp, but it came out as a whisper. It didn’t matter that Uncle Ben hadn’t finished speaking, yet. “I’m so sorry, Uncle Ben. You come first, you always come first. You’re the most important thing.”_

 

_“I know that,” Uncle Ben assured him as Peter draped his Spider-Man mask over the back of a bench, itching to put it down. “I know.” Gwen’s arm slung around his waist and Aunt May smiled at him, shoulder to shoulder with Uncle Ben._

 

_“I love you,” Peter said to his Uncle, then to his Aunt, “I love you.” He met Gwen’s eyes. That blue was all wrong, he noted dully. “I love you.”_

 

_“We love you, too.”_

 

_“Peter,” It was Gwen, and he turned to look at her fully, feeling a heaviness settling back over him. “What is that in your hands?”_

 

_\---_

 

“So what movies do you guys have here?” Jessica sprawled on the Long Couch, as Peter had dubbed it, hair still wet from her shower. She hadn’t mentioned going back to school, after the fight, and Thor didn’t seem inclined to bring it up, so Peter hadn’t either. Instead, he’d invited her back to the tower. He had a high enough clearance to do so, he was happy to discover on their return.

 

“Basically all of them,” Peter snickered from where he sat cross-legged on the short couch. Thor sat on the ground in front of him, indulgently teaching Peter about the importance of braids in different warrior cultures. Peter was just taking the opportunity to play with a literal god’s hair. It was just as soft as one might assume, he thought with a happy sigh. “You can put something on, if you want to. We ordered pizza, too, so that should be here, soon.”

 

“Are the Avengers paying you, now?” Jess asked with a raised eyebrow, shooting him a skeptical glance.

 

“No,” Peter answered defensively, stifling a pang of longing. “Thor bought it.” Jessica relaxed, shooting him a grin.

 

“Hey, chill out, Spidey,” She scoffed, waving a hand at him. “Not trying to accuse you of anything. Thanks for the pizza, Thor.”

 

“Any battle as mighty as the one we faced together today deserves a feast,” Thor answered sagely. “And I’ve become rather fond of pizza, personally. It was certainly no problem to provide it for you.”

 

“You’re the best, Thor,” Peter said seriously, and he heard Thor chuckling as he tilted his head back. Their eyes met through the mask and Thor smiled at him.

 

“There’s an expression I’ve learned since meeting the rest of the Avengers that I feel is fitting in this situation,” He said thoughtfully as Peter started another braid out of the crown of his head. He leaned back slightly, nudging Peter’s knees. “What are friends for?”

 

“We’re friends, huh?” Peter asked, a smile growing under his mask.

 

“Of course!” Thor assured him firmly. “More than that, we’re brothers in arms!” He twisted his head to look at Jessica, ruining Peter’s braid, but he didn’t really mind. None of them were very good anyway. “With our sister, of course.”

 

That brought a grin to Jessica’s face. “Sister in arms? Is that even a thing?”

 

“It absolutely is,” Thor nodded once. “I’ll have to tell you about the lady Sif, some day. She is one of the greatest warriors Asgard has ever seen, and she has fought by my side for centuries.” He looked proud, and Jess propped her feet up on the cushion, eyebrows lifting.

 

“Sounds like there might be a little something between yourself and this Sif, huh?” She teased him, and Peter couldn’t help but feel jealous that she was cool and confident enough to _tease_ a god about a possible crush after just an afternoon together.

 

“No,” Thor laughed, quashing the idea immediately. The word was so relaxed and amused that Peter found it difficult for it to be anything but true. “Sif and I have always been friends, but nothing more. Our attentions have always fallen elsewhere.”

 

“Alright,” Jessica picked up the remote and flipped on the television. “But if not you and Sif, what’s the gossip on Asgard these days? Fill us in.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter jumped in immediately. “Fill us in.”

 

“You two are incorrigible,” Thor scolded them, although he sounded like he was about to laugh again. “I would never betray the trust of my fellow Asgardians by discussing their private lives behind their backs.”

 

“Aw, come on,” Peter cajoled, focusing on the braid he was trying to redo. The flash of red in his periphery informed him that Jessica had navigated to Netflix. “It’s not like we’ll even know who you’re talking about. We just want to know more about what’s going on out there in the vast reaches of space.”

 

“Oh my god,” Jessica groaned loudly, dropping her head back. “Don’t make this _nerdy_ , Spider-Man. This is not some Star-Wars fantasy, we’re talking about literal mythical gods, here.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter argued. “Mythical gods who turned out to be _aliens_ this whole time. You’re telling me that that isn’t a science-fiction _dream_?”

 

Jessica hauled a throw pillow over her face and groaned into it again, clearly unimpressed by his line of reasoning.

 

“Apologies for the interruption,” JARVIS said, and the three of them glanced toward the ceiling in unison. “There’s a visitor for Spider-Man on the first floor.”

 

The Chameleon, Peter thought, his heart skipping a beat. What could he want?

 

“Um— let him up, I guess?” Peter answered hesitantly, not entirely sure that he was allowed to bring people into the tower on his own, but JARVIS voiced no objection, so he allowed himself to let the worry go.

 

“Who do you have visiting you at Avenger’s Tower?” Jessica asked, peering over the back of the couch toward the elevator.

 

“Um,” Peter didn’t answer, instead twisting to watch the doors as well. They slid open only a moment later, and his visitor stepped out. Peter blinked, then groaned, flopping down against the cushions of the couch, out of sight of the red-suited guest.

 

“Hey, Spidey,” Deadpool chirped, and Peter could see Jessica gaping at him. Thor pulled away from Peter and stood, turning towards the elevator. He was huge, Peter thought admiringly, and he looked very intimidating with his arms crossed like that.

 

“Spider-Man,” he said with a frown, watching the merc warily. “This is your guest?”

 

“Oh my god, it’s Thor,” Deadpool was gushing from the elevator. “Great hair, baby, I love it. If I wasn’t already here to see somebody else, I’d be all over that.” Peter could hear Deadpool approaching, but he didn’t get up. There was no warning from his spider-sense, so he strongly doubted that the guy was here to fight again. Unfortunately, that also meant that he was caught unawares when Deadpool hopped over the couch and sat on his legs. “Hey, baby boy, how’s it hangin’?”

 

“I’m not your baby boy,” Peter griped, pulling his legs out from under Deadpool and sitting up, feeling somewhat petulant that his nice afternoon was being interrupted. “Why do you even call me that?”

 

“I tried out a bunch of nicknames when we first started hanging out,” Deadpool informed him primly.

 

“We do not hang out.”

 

“And that’s the one that stuck,” Deadpool finished as if Peter hadn’t interrupted, but then paused and tilted his head in consideration. “Or, at least, it’s the one that got the biggest reaction.”

 

“Biggest reaction?” Peter repeated, baffled.

 

Deadpool turned to give _you, specifically,_ a significant look before restoring the integrity of the story by turning it into a look towards Jessica.

 

“And who’s this? I don’t think we’ve met. Not _another_ moody teenage girl.”

 

“Not _another_ red-suited asshole,” Jessica quipped back, frowning at him, and Deadpool dropped his head into his hand with a groan.

 

“I swear, they’re multiplying,” he complained. “Everywhere I go, brooding teenagers. I can’t escape.”

 

“You could,” Peter pointed out, pulling up his knees between them, as if it were some kind of impassable barrier. “If you _left_.”

 

“Spider-Man,” That was Thor, still looming over his shoulder with a frown. “If you wish him gone, say the word.” Peter glanced up at him, touched, and smiled at the stubborn, stern look on his face. Thor was protective of him, he realized. That was… nice.

 

“Aw, come on, Thor,” Deadpool was giving the god his best puppy-eyes through the mask. “Don’t kick me out. I’m cool, I promise. I’ve only checked you out, like, twice. Surely that tells you I’m here for more than a social call.”

 

“What are you here for, then?” Peter demanded, straightening up a little. Thor gave him a concerned frown, then crossed to sit down in one of the armchairs behind Peter. The teen couldn’t see him anymore, but it didn’t escape his notice that the hulking figure was directly in Deadpool’s line of sight. Peter felt another surge of happiness before he turned back to business.

 

“I’ve got that info you asked for.” Deadpool shot him a pair of finger guns, looking pleased with himself. It took Peter a moment to figure out what he meant, but then he sat bolt upright.

 

“Noah Montford?” He demanded, and Deadpool nodded.

 

“I’ve got everything you need.” He opened one of the pouches on his belt and started fumbling through it, spilling receipts onto the floor next to the couch. Peter frowned at him, and the room was quiet aside from the crinkling of paper and the mumbled cursing of Deadpool as he fished a thumb drive out of it. “Here you go, buddy,” He held it out and Peter accepted it, swallowing.

 

“Um— thank you, Deadpool.” He said hesitantly, and Deadpool beamed at him.

 

“Sure thing, Spidey.” Quiet fell over the room again, this time heavier. Kind of awkward, honestly; like none of them were sure what to say. “Well…” Deadpool stood, arms swinging at his side. “Nice doing business with you, Spidey,” He took one step away from the couch. “I’ll… see you around.”

 

“Yup,” Peter agreed uncomfortably. “I guess so.”

 

“Cool.” God, this was so uncomfortable.

 

“Your pizza has arrived,” JARVIS announced. “I’ve taken the liberty of sending him up.”

 

“Oh,” Deadpool was aiming the puppy eyes at Peter now. “You guys are having pizza, huh?”

 

“Yup,” Peter nodded slowly, watching as Deadpool shuffled his feet hopefully. He relented with a heavy sigh. “Do you want to stay and have some?”

 

“Definitely!” Deadpool threw himself back down on the couch, clearly delighted. “So, what are we watching?”

 

“Um, I don’t think we’ve picked anything yet,” Peter answered, not sure why he was surprised at the sudden change of attitude. “Got any input?”

 

“Oh, I’m up for whatever,” Deadpool assured him, waving a hand at him.

 

“Seriously?” Jessica snorted. “We’re doing this? This is so weird and awkward.”

 

“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” Deadpool informed her sternly as the elevator opened, admitting the pizza guy, who looked somewhat starstruck.

 

“Excellent,” Thor enthused, seeming more like himself now that Peter had allowed Deadpool to stay. Or maybe it was because the pizza was here. The god stood and crossed the room to accept the delivery while Peter turned his attention to the television.

 

“We should pick something before even _more_ people show up to weigh in,” Peter joked, and Deadpool immediately jumped in.

 

“Parks and Rec,” he blurted. “Please, _please_ , can we watch Parks and Rec? I’ve been absolutely _binging_ it lately.” He sounded like he was grinning, though Peter didn’t turn to look.

 

“Works for me,” Peter agreed, thumbing the drive in his palm. He wondered if he should go read it, but then Thor was setting down the six— _six—_ pizzas he’d apparently ordered and the smell of it made Peter’s stomach rumble.

 

Could he afford to wait a few hours? Surely nothing would happen before he had time to go through the information later tonight. But he’d been wrong about things like this, before. If he’d been faster with the last drive…

 

He shook his head. It wouldn’t have changed anything.

 

Peter stuffed the thumb drive into the pocket of his pants, and glanced at Deadpool when he noticed him staring out of the corner of his eye.

 

“What?” He asked, somewhat self-consciously.

 

“Just wondering if you were planning to pout over there all afternoon,” Deadpool teased, and Peter frowned at him, arms crossing.

 

“I’m not pouting.”

 

“Sure you’re not,” Jess laughed, and when he looked she was watching him, too, grinning past the pizza she was already lifting to her mouth.

 

“Sure,” Thor agreed, snickering as he pulled a box closer to himself and opened it. Peter rolled his eyes heartily, almost wishing that she others could see it, then deliberately swung his legs down to the floor and snagged a piece of pizza with one hand, tugging his mask up to his nose with the other. He very deliberately ignored their comments, choosing instead to fall into the silence required of him by the displaced modulator.

 

Jessica hit play on the screen and they all settled in comfortably.

 

As it turned out, Thor was the only one who had never seen any of the show. They offered to start from the beginning, but they quickly found that half the fun was teaching Thor about past relationships, events, and customs of humanity that might have an effect on the general watchability of the show. It wasn’t at all surprising that he adored it.

 

One episode turned into two, into three, into a marathon. Eventually, though, even that turned into more of a background noise for the chatter in the tower until finally it was replaced with video games, music videos, and finally, karaoke.

 

The ensing displays of raucous immaturity finally drove Jessica out of the tower. Or at least, that was her excuse; Peter suspected that she needed to get home before the Joneses caught onto the fact that she hadn’t been home all day.

 

Peter wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, exactly, but he knew that Thor and Deadpool were still going strong with a duet of _Living on a Prayer_ , despite the fact that Thor had clearly never heard the song before.

 

It was good, Peter thought before drifting off. They sounded good together.

 

\---

 

_Peter was upgrading his webshooters in Tony’s lab. Next to him, Otto Octavius was screaming, shrieking, wailing over the sounds of warping metal and small electrical fizzes. Peter hadn’t paid much attention to his words, on the dark night they’d last met, but certain phrases stuck out and returned to him, now._

 

_“I’ll kill you! I’ll rip you limb from limb,” Octavius was snarling in his ear, metal arms continuing to twist and snap of their own accord, over and over again._

 

_“Mmhmm,” Peter hummed back noncommittally, although he was hearing every word, now, whether he liked it or not. The man was hard to ignore, sitting so close by._

 

_“I’ll kill everyone you’ve ever loved!” Doc Ock threatened, writhing in agony against the workbench._

 

_“You already did that,” Peter reminded him vacantly, but that didn’t distract the doctor from his raging._

 

_“I’ll find out your name! I’ll find out your face! I’ll tell the whole world!”_

 

_“Big whoop,” Peter muttered, carefully tightening a screw on the inside of the device. “Don’t you have anything better to be doing?”_

 

_“I’ll find you,” Octavius’s words were thick with furious tears, and Peter spared him a short glance before turning back to his work. “I’ll ruin your life, I’ll take everything from you, I’ll get my revenge!”_

 

_“Get in line, buddy,” Peter mumbled back, lips pursing as he considered the parts assembled before him._

 

\---

 

Peter yawned, blinking awake in the Avengers common room.

 

The lights had been turned off, but the room was still illuminated by the light of the television, which was playing _Titanic_.

 

Deadpool was snoring at the far end of Peter’s couch, arms draped along the back, head tucked down against his chest. Thor was face down on the short couch, one arm dangling to the ground, his blonde mane splayed haphazardly over his back. Peter sat up, feeling stiff but content as he looked around.

 

Popcorn, he saw, some of it spilled on the carpet.  Mr. Stark wouldn’t like that, especially considering that it looked like someone had stepped on it.

 

There were empty soda cans scattered around the room, and luckily all of them were sitting right side up. He didn’t think that the engineer would have let them survive a spill of cherry cola.

 

Game controllers and several video game cases stacked next to the television, reflecting the light from Jack and Rose on screen.

 

Day three of the Epic Summer Sleepover Extravaganza had been a smash success, Peter thought with a sleepy grin, stretching his back.

 

“JARVIS,” Peter spoke softly so as not to wake his snoozing companions. “What time is it?”

 

“It is currently five forty-five in the morning,” JARVIS answered, his own volume low. Peter appreciated that about him.

 

Peter stood, feeling his bones creaking after his third straight night of falling asleep on the couch with his new friends, and he grimaced as something jabbed at his leg. His hand fell to his pocket and he felt a small lump there, and suddenly he remembered.

 

_Noah Montford._

 

Peter rounded the couch on sleep-stricken legs. The first night, he’d opened the files on Noah Montford. They were extensive, but not in any of the areas he would have thought.

 

He shuffled into the kitchen, sitting down heavily at the table. There were more empty soda cans here: mostly from his late-night research sessions. He cracked another cola open, yawning as he lifted his mask up enough to drink.

 

There was a laptop here, loaned to him by Thor, who assured him that it had been given to him by Tony but the Asgarian never used it because it was so low-tech.

 

He swore Peter to secrecy, and Peter had wholeheartedly agreed. Neither of them wanted Tony to find out that Thor thought that about his tech.

 

Peter opened the computer, propping his chin onto his fist and closing his eyes before the brightness of the screen could blind him in the dark. Even with the screen set as dim as possible, to his powerful senses it could be a little much in a dark room like this. He would turn the light on if he weren’t worried about waking Thor and Deadpool.

 

He could see the light even through his eyelids, even through the mask, and he gave himself a moment to brace before cracking his eyes open. There on the screen were the same files he’d been combing through for days, whenever he managed to sneak away from his friends.

 

There were credit reports (high), utility bills for various buildings around town (offices, mostly), a birth certificate (legitimate). There were medical records (normal checkups, for the most part), a few bills from a psychiatrist, and one bill from a private practitioner who Deadpool had noted specializes in mutants. That would have been much more helpful, Peter reflected dryly, if Peter hadn’t already _known_ that the guy was a mutant. It would have been more helpful if he didn’t already basically have a grasp on his powers.

 

There were a few traffic violations on his name, but nothing really terrible; caught speeding a few times, parked illegally once, several years ago. He was listed in the latest census as living alone, despite the house he claimed residence in being nearly ten thousand square feet. Parked right in the middle of Manhattan, no less.

 

Peter had his birthday, his full name, his address, his phone number, the names addresses and phone numbers of the businesses he owned, the names, phone numbers, and addresses of people he knew. Emails, fax machines, dating websites. Bank statements, car payments, even his social security number.

 

But there was nothing tying him to the guns from the docks.

 

Nothing tying him to that warehouse.

 

Nothing tying him to Otto Octavius, or Miles Warren, or even Dmitri Smerdyakov.

 

Peter buried his face into his hands.

 

He’d ended up forwarding everything to Dmitri, to see if there was anything he could expand on for Peter. Anything he could reveal.

 

Nothing. Dmitri had apologized and told him that there was nothing there that either of them could use.

 

“Spider-Man.”

 

Peter looked up, startled, to find Thor standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He looked disheveled in the Midgard-style clothing he’d been wearing for the last few days, but the look of tired concern made Peter feel like _he_ was the mess between the two of them.

 

And hey, that was probably the case.

 

Peter pulled his mask back down. “Hey, Thor. Sorry, did I wake you up?”

 

“What are you doing?” He asked, leaning against the frame of the archway. Peter shrugged.

 

“Just some work.”

 

Thor hummed, nodding slowly. “Getting a lot accomplished, are we?” He didn’t sound judgemental. He just sounded like he knew the truth. Peter’s eyes dropped down to the keyboard.

 

“No, not really.”

 

“Spider-Man,” His voice gentled a little as he cajoled Peter. “Go back to sleep. I know you’ve been up every night since I’ve been here, fiddling with whatever you’ve got on there. It’s not good for you to obsess like this.”

 

“It’s not obsessing,” Peter frowned at him.

 

“Call it what you like,” Thor answered dismissively. “You’re losing sleep over it. Don’t let it bother you so much. Whatever it is, staring at that screen isn’t going to get anything accomplished, is it?”

 

“But I—”

 

“Is it?” Thor repeated, eyebrows lifting, and Peter’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

 

“I guess not.”

 

“Good.” The god straightened up again, and Peter reluctantly shut the computer again. Thor was backlit against the dim light of the television behind him, now, so Peter couldn’t see his expression, but he sounded relieved. “Now come back. The boat is sinking.”

 

“What?” Peter asked, then blinked, a smile rising to his face as he reluctantly stood. “The Titanic, you mean?”

 

“Exactly,” Thor agreed, holding an arm out towards Peter. As he approached, the god slung it around his shoulders, leading him back out to the living room. The god didn’t let him go as they flopped down on the short couch. Just as Thor had described, the screen showed Rose slogging through the flooded lower levels of the ship. “It’s a tragedy, but terribly fascinating.”

 

“It’s based on a real ship, you know. A ship that really sank.”

 

“Oh? Tell me more about it.”

 

\---

 

_Peter and Uncle Ben were sitting on the back porch of the old house, where they’d lived before his death had forced them into a smaller apartment. They were both silent, just listening to the birds chirping as the sun shone down on the small yard they had._

 

_Peter looked down at the Spider-Man mask in his hands._

 

\---

 

The next time Peter woke up was in the full light of morning. His head was cushioned against Thor’s shoulder, and the god still had an arm protectively around him. He could hear the deep, slow breaths of people in sleep, and it took him awhile to realize that it was from more than two sources.

 

He smiled, not bothering to open his eyes. The Avengers were home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so there's only three chapters left  
> Headed into the end game  
> Come talk about it in my discord  
> You know  
> If you wanna  
> https://discord.gg/4hdXVw4


	16. Like an Earthquake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG THANK YOU to Sunpops1 here on ao3 for helping me with this chapter! I was floundering without any kind of motivation, but she kept me company and kept my spirits up and I don't know WHEN I would have gotten this done without her help. So you'd all better appreciate her as much as I do :D

**July**

 

Jameson glowered down at his desk, fingers tapping against the papers strewn there.

 

Peter Parker. The name stood out on the proofs like a beacon, and his fingers tensed, wrinkling the paper for a moment before he caught himself and smoothed it out again.

 

Gwen Stacy. He scanned over the photographs included in the submission: yearbook photos, from the look of it. The two of them were so  _ young _ , he thought with an ache of regret. They didn’t deserve what had befallen them. The two of them were just kids. Kids with no sense of self-preservation, clearly, but that didn’t mean anything.

 

That didn’t mean that they deserved to die. No, that wasn’t at all fair to them.

 

They never should have gotten involved with the paper. If they hadn’t, maybe they would have stayed out of harm’s way. They might have been safe from the wrath of Doc Ock. They might have been safe from  _ Spider-Man. _

 

That man was a menace. Jameson had always known it: it was convincing the rest of the city that had always been something of a chore. Finally he had the proof. Spider-Man, not only a vigilante, but a murderer. He found himself wishing, though, that it had wound up differently.

 

Not that Spider-Man would have ever proved himself to be something different, of course, but he wished that it hadn’t been like  _ this.  _ Not to kids. Not to  _ those _ kids.

 

Sure, Parker had been a pest. Stacy had been a nuisance. But they weren’t bad, as far as kids went. Hell, they weren’t bad as far as  _ employees _ went. Get the photos, get paid, get out. He liked that about the two of them.

 

Jameson leaned back, rubbing ink-stained fingers against his closed eyelids. It wasn’t right. Gwen Stacy, dead two months now, with no hint of justice for her on the horizon. Sure, Octavius was safely locked up again, this time sans-arms, but what about his accomplice? What about  _ Spider-Man? _

 

No one had seen the guy in months. There were rumors that he had a hand in cleaning up that mess in Central Park last month, but no one had any proof. Not even so much as a grainy photo taken on a smartphone. And sure, rumors had weight enough to carry some stories, but there had been radio silence from the vigilante for so long that one whisper meant nothing in the eyes of the readers.

 

That didn’t mean he was gone, though. Jameson  _ knew _ that he was still out there. He knew that he was just biding his time, lying low, no doubt waiting for the warrant with his name on it to cool down a little.

 

It had been somewhat gratifying to hear that the police were finally trying to bring Spider-Man in for questioning, but it wasn’t enough. If Stacy’s police captain father weren’t involved, the man would probably still be in the clear altogether. No one seemed to care much, that Spider-Man had a hand in that girl’s death.

 

And what about Parker? The boy wouldn’t leave Jameson’s mind. Not for months, now. The kid was still officially declared missing, but there was little hope, at this point, that he was going to make a reappearance. When a teenager disappeared, after a certain point one just had to accept that something had happened to him.

 

Jameson let out a long, heavy sigh.

 

That poor kid.

 

He didn’t know where he was, he didnt know if he would ever be found, he didn’t know if he was alive. But he knew one thing.

 

Even if the kid had no living relatives to care about him, even if no one else was pursuing justice, Jameson wasn’t going to let him disappear without raising a stink about it. Not when he strongly suspected that Spider-Man was behind that, too.

 

_ SPIDER-MAN SUSPECT IN TEEN’S DISAPPEARANCE _ , the headline screamed at him. Kind of chunky, but at this point, he’d published so many articles about it that eloquence was kind of running thin. Jameson’s fingers tapped against it again as he turned his glower back down to the paper.

 

No new leads, he knew. But that didn’t stop him from turning to his computer to scan through his compiled information again, as if there were something there he may have missed. Some hint that would implicate the vigilante in all this. Some clue that might trap the spider in his own web.

 

Nothing, he thought, feeling a simmering rage roiling under his skin through his chest, down his arms, and into his fingers. He wanted to  _ write _ , to declare again to the whole world that Spider-Man was murdering New York’s youth, but what more was there to say? What could he put on paper that he hadn’t already printed a hundred times?

 

That monster would pay for what he’d done, Jameson swore to himself. If he had to spend the next hundred years shouting it from the rooftops, this city would know what Spider-Man had done.

 

“Mr. Jameson,” The voice interrupted his fuming and he looked up to find Betty standing in his doorway. The floor outside was quiet, with the overhead lights turned out. There were a few desk lights still lit, but most of his staff had gone home, by now. A glance at his clock revealed how late it had become without him noticing. “You should go home.”

 

Jameson snorted, feeling old. He felt  _ so _ old, looking at Betty standing in his door. “You don’t need to babysit me, Brant,” he admonished her, hearing the exhaustion in his own voice despite himself. She frowned at him.

 

“I’m not trying to, sir,” She raised her eyebrows pointedly. “You don’t pay me enough for that.” As he scoffed his amusement, she continued. “But your wife just called asking if you were still here.”

 

“Damnit,” His shoulders slackened a little as he grimaced. “I still need to—”

 

“It can wait until the morning,” Betty interrupted him, and he shot her a glance.

 

“I need—”

 

“It can wait,” She repeated, her voice patient and more sympathetic than he liked.

 

“Oh, who asked you?” He demanded sourly, pushing himself stiffly to his feet. Still a long way to retirement, he thought with a grim sort of amusement. Especially if that hundred-years-on-the-rooftops plan panned out. “Go home, Brant.” He pulled his keys out of his desk drawer and saw Betty relax in his periphery.

 

“Yes, sir,” She agreed, taking a step back. “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Bright and early,” he reminded her, as if she’d been late a day in her career.

 

“Yes, sir,” She agreed, then turned and disappeared into the muffled darkness of the floor. Jameson sighed, trudging to his door. He glanced back, one more time, at the article on his desk, then flicked off the light, locking the door behind himself as he went.

 

\---

 

Peter stared up at the ceiling of the guest room, fingers clenched tight around the blankets. The dream he’d been having lingered in his mind, as it sometimes did. Aunt May, excited to see him. Uncle Ben, warm and inviting. Gwen, asking him about the mask in his hands.

 

Always in his hands, no matter how many times he put it down. It was so heavy. Lying there in the dark, aware of JARVIS’s eyes, it felt like he could barely lift his head with the weight of the spandex pinning him to the pillow.

 

Peter rolled over and staggered out of the bed, stumbling his way into the bathroom and shutting the door firmly behind him so he could pull it off. The only place he could risk it, he thought bitterly, casting a glance towards the mirror. The webbing he’d laid over it last night to block the reflection was gone, despite the early hour, and he heaved a sigh of disappointment. He’d left his shooters in the other room. 

 

Peter ran a hand through sweaty hair, glancing at the shower. The cold water would probably do him some good, he thought longingly, but it was placed across from the mirror he was trying to avoid. Maybe he should just suck it up, he thought with a glance towards the flat, judgemental surface. The last time he’d looked had been pretty bad, sure, but it had been months, now, since he’d allowed himself a look at his reflection. How bad could it be?

 

He tugged at his hair, much longer now than he’d ever worn it. He ought to ask for some scissors or something. He bet that it looked pretty shaggy.

 

Oh, whatever, he thought firmly, bracing himself. If he couldn’t bear to look his own reflection in the eye, he had much bigger problems than his appearance, he told himself, striding purposefully up to the mirror.

 

Just like every time he’d seen his appearance since Aunt May died, he was surprised. He never expected his emaciated form, the deep shadows under his eyes, the bruises on his skin.

 

Well, maybe that wasn’t true— he’d expected it this time. To his astonishment, however, that wasn’t how he looked, now.

 

The bruises had all healed. The cuts and scrapes he was used to seeing were closed over, every sign of them vanished with time.

 

The bags under his eyes were practically gone— while he still didn’t sleep regular hours, he slept a lot more than he had while he was living with Gwen. He rubbed at his face, fascination filling him as his cheeks, more filled out than they’d been in months, shifted under his fingers.

 

He’d put on weight, he noticed. He was still skinny, probably too skinny, but he didn’t look so dangerously thin as he had. He tugged the loose fabric of his shirt towards his back, exposing the shape of his torso, and he was delighted to discover the lean muscles there, rather than the ribs he’d started to see, towards the end of April and into May.

 

He found a laugh bubbling up to his lips, and his eyes flew back up to take in the happiness on his face. It was the first time he’d seen it there in a long time. Even when he’d been laughing, even when he’d been having a good time, he hadn’t  _ seen _ . Looking in the mirror, he’d only seen his grief. Now there was a light in his eyes that he’d forgotten lived there.

 

His hair was long, sure. Kind of greasy, but that was to be expected, wearing his mask so often. He really ought to wash it, soon, he thought as he wrinkled his nose at his reflection. The goofy expression brought another laugh into the air and he felt his happiness and anxiety twisting up in his chest that was exciting and terrifying all at once.

 

Peter glanced down at the mask, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. He bit his lip, considering, then tugged it back on, casting one more glance in the mirror. Spider-Man met his gaze evenly, and Peter raised both hands, aiming them towards the glass.

 

“ _ Thwip thwip _ ,” He whispered to himself, a grin spreading invisibly under the fabric.

 

Then he turned and burst back out the bathroom door, dropping down to his knees next to the bed. “JARVIS, what time is it?” He asked, groping around under the bed for the metal case he knew would be there. Mr. Stark hadn’t so much presented it to him as he had left it propped up outside Peter’s door, but one glance inside had assured him that it could only have been meant as a gift.

 

Peter’s fingers closed on the handle and he tugged it out as the smooth voice coming from around him answered his question.

 

“Three fifteen a.m.,” JARVIS told him. “Going out, sir?”

 

“I sure am,” Peter agreed, some of his excitement brimming over and sloshing invisibly out into the air as he snapped the clasps on the case open and lifted the lid, exposing the red and blue material inside, the spider symbol shining up at him like a greeting.

 

It wasn’t his old suit, Peter knew, brushing his fingers over the material. It wasn’t spandex, that was for sure, although he had no idea what it might be made of. Something bulletproof, he strongly suspected, fingers catching over links in the fabric that were much too small to see with the naked eye.

 

“I should inform you that Mr. Stark has expressed that he would rather you stay in the tower,” JARVIS admonished him. “I’ve been asked to remind you that there are dangerous enemies potentially lying in wait for you outside.”

 

“Potentially,” Peter repeated, a grin plastered over his face. “But not necessarily. It’s three in the morning, JARVIS, nobody’s even going to see me leave. And besides, Tony himself has said that I’m crazy hard to track, right? So as long as I don’t just hang out in one spot all night, I’ll be impossible to find.”

 

“I can’t say that I approve,” JARVIS remarked dryly as Peter lifted the suit almost reverently from the case. While his had been a respectable suit, especially considering he made it himself, this one was  _ quality _ .

 

“Aw, come on, JARVIS,” Peter snickered. “Don’t be a stick in the mud. This is what I  _ do _ , you know? Or— at least, it’s what I  _ did _ , before. And now I’m just… testing the waters. Everything will be fine.” He ducked into the bathroom, but that didn’t move him out of JARVIS’s range. Although he’d been assured that JARVIS had no visual sensors in the bathroom, many, many times, he could still access the computer from in here. And that meant the computer had access to him, too. And apparently he intended to use that to scold him.

 

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to change your mind,” JARVIS nearly sighed, and Peter wished he could give the AI a comforting pat on the shoulder.

 

“Not likely,” Peter agreed, struggling out of his shirt and working on the new Spidey-shirt. Gosh, it felt so freaking awesome. It would probably feel way less terrible when it got sweaty.

 

“I’ll have to inform Mr. Stark,” JARVIS warned him, and Peter paused, frowning.

 

“Aw, come on, JARVIS, don’t do that,” Peter protested. 

 

“It’s protocol, I’m afraid,” The AI informed him, and that spurred Peter into hurriedly continuing changing.

 

“He’s just going to worry,” Peter argued. “For no good reason. I’m going to be  _ fine _ , so he doesn’t even need to know about it.”

 

“Mr. Stark has been very firm on this matter.”

 

“What a worry wart,” Peter groaned, hopping on one foot as he tugged the first of the boots on over the fancy spider-pants he had put off putting on for way too long. “Look, JARVIS, this is basically just… going for a walk. I’m just getting some air. Okay?”

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” JARVIS rebuffed him again, and Peter tugged his old mask off in favor of pulling the new one over his head.  _ Whoa _ . What were these lenses made of? They were so much easier to see out of than the ones he’d made for his old suit.

 

“Okay, JARVIS,” Peter agreed, trying to decide whether to be pleased or disgruntled that Tony had somehow managed to incorporate a voice modulator into the mask. He wasn’t even supposed to  _ know _ about that. “I get it. I guess I’ll just stay in, then.”

 

“Excellent choice, sir,” JARVIS sounded somewhat relieved, the artificial voice sounding relieved enough that it made Peter feel a little guilty as he snagged his webshooters and phone and jogged out of the room and down the hall to the elevator.

 

“Could you take me to the common floor, please?” He asked politely, fastening the shooters into place and JARVIS started the elevator upwards with no further complaints. He would have asked to go to the launch deck, but then JARVIS definitely would have clued in that he was lying. If it wasn’t already a part of his profile to be wearing the Spider-suit, he probably would have already gotten called out on it.

 

The doors opened and Peter peeked outwards, glancing around for any sign of other Avengers, but the common floor was dark, the lights only flicking on automatically as Peter stepped out of the elevator. “Thanks, JARVIS,” Peter chirped brightly, that bubbling eagerness to feel the wind against his body filling the bowl in his chest with something fizzy.

 

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS agreed, still sounding relaxed and casual even as Peter strolled across the room to the balcony. His voice took on a tone of alarm, though, as Peter pulled the doors open, beaming. “Sir—”

 

“Don’t wait up for me, JARVIS,” Peter called over his shoulder, snickering as he close the doors behind himself and turned towards the city.

 

It wasn’t asleep, of course, Peter thought affectionately, climbing up to perch on the railing. He could see cars going by down below, and the blinding lights of Manhattan were still vibrant and alive even at the late hour.

 

Peter sucked in a deep breath, interested in the way the air filtered through the mask, different than it had in his old one. He’d left the comm behind, he realized, and debated going back for it, but he knew that JARVIS had no doubt tattled on him by now. He’d just stick close, he decided, tucking the phone into a pocket he discovered near his belt.

 

Peter stood, balancing for a moment on the thin metal bar that held him suspended above the warm summer night. If he listened hard, he could hear shouting down below. Not screaming, he noted, rolling his shoulders as he felt the tension bleeding out of them. Just shouting. There was laughter, some cheering: people out late, enjoying life, he thought as he wobbled, buffeted by the wind.

 

Tony would probably be coming after him in just a minute, Peter thought ruefully. Better get moving.

 

He tipped over the edge of the balcony and let himself fall, gasping as he tumbled past the windows of Stark Tower, letting himself drop closer to the street before slinging his first web.

 

Peter would never get over the feeling of the downswing, launching him high up into the air, completely defying the unerring force of gravity. He could feel it pulling at his body, but he curved, dragging out his momentum as long as possible before starting a new arch downward, swinging languidly away from the tower.

 

He was at the peak of one swing when he heard a voice in his ear.

 

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

 

Peter yelped, the surprise knocking him off-rhythm as he flailed his arms, catching himself about thirty feet lower than he had anticipated being. The recovery wasn’t smooth, but he managed it as he whipped his head around, searching for the source of the sound.

 

“Tony?” He shouted, trying to hear the Iron Man suit over the rush of wind, but it was nowhere in sight.

 

“That’s right, buddy,” The disapproving tone was coming from right next to his ear, he realized as he swung up high, trying to regain his altitude. “JARVIS told me you bailed. I thought we were all on the same page about you staying in the tower?”

 

“Is there a comm in this suit?” Peter demanded, abs tightening in that familiar way as he flipped through the air. 

 

“And a tracker,” Tony told him, voice sounding clear as day. He would be impressed if he hadn’t just dropped again.

 

“What!”

 

“Well I was  _ planning _ on telling you,” Tony quipped. “I expected to get a chance to talk to you about it before you took the thing for a joyride.”

 

“It’s not a joyride,” Peter argued. “It’s a  _ suit _ . You can’t joyride a suit. Unless it’s the Iron Man suit or something. You could do that.”

 

“You don’t have to shout, Spidey,” Tony was exasperated on the other end of the line. “The tech can hear you just fine.”

 

“Whoops,” Peter lowered his voice, realizing that, yeah, he’d kind of been yelling. “Sorry. But anyway, point stands,” He scampered up the side of a building, planting his hands on his hips as he reached the top. He spun on his heel to regard the glowing monolith of Stark Tower against the skyline. “I never agreed to a tracker.”

 

“But you  _ did _ agree to stay in the tower.”

 

Peter grimaced. “Look, it’s not like anything’s going to happen.”

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

“What?” Peter demanded, watching as, in the distance, a flare of light flashed near the top of the tower. A trail of orange arching up into the sky made Peter groan aloud, tipping his head back. “Tell me that’s not you. Tell me you’re not coming out here at three in the morning. You can’t give me a  _ curfew _ , Tony, I’m an adult.” As far as Tony knew, anyway.

 

“Sure, Spidey,” Tony scoffed, and it would have hurt Peter’s feelings if it wasn’t a bad lie to begin with. “You’re very mature. You obviously take care of yourself just fine.”

 

“I do,” Peter crossed his arms stubbornly, watching as Tony approached. “I’ve taken care of myself really well, if you ask me.”

 

“I wasn’t asking.” He was close enough for Peter to see his faceplate, now. Somehow the flat, neutral expression felt disapproving. “From all the evidence I’ve seen, you could use some looking after.”

 

“Hey,” Peter threw up his arms in frustration. “You’ve seen me in rough shape a couple of times, sure, but that’s because those were the times I  _ needed _ help. Most of the time I don’t! Think of all the times I  _ haven’t _ come to the tower.”

 

“Trust me, kid,” Tony scoffed, the armor pulling up a few meters above Peter’s head. “I do think about it.”

 

Peter huffed. “Not like that,” he objected, feeling a swell of guilt despite himself. “Just… I’m a hero, too, you know? I’m not just some kid. Believe it or not, I actually am pretty good at all this.” There was silence from inside the suit, so Peter forged on. “Nothing’s going to happen. I can take care of myself. I’m well rested, I’m well fed, and I’m… I want to be out here. I’m ready to…” He couldn’t quite finish the sentence. Was he ready? He wasn’t sure. But he wanted to try.

 

There was a puff of breath against the comm as Tony sighed. “You’re not going to come back to the tower.” It wasn’t a question, but Peter grinned under his mask and gave him an answer anyway.

 

“Of course I am,” Peter assured him. “ _ Later _ .”

 

“Great,” Tony landed heavily against the roof, faceplate popping open. Now Peter could hear his voice carrying through the air, instead of through an earpiece, but he couldn’t help but note how it sounded nearly identical. He really, really needed to have Tony go over this equipment with him. It was leaps and bounds above any other— what was he thinking? It was Stark Tech. Of  _ course _ it was. “I’m not explaining to the team when you come back all torn up.”

 

“I’m going to be fine,” Peter insisted, hands propping stubbornly on his hips again. “Are you going to sit around the tower all night worrying about me?”

 

“No,” Tony rolled his eyes, visible even in the night thanks to the lights of the nearby skyscrapers. 

 

“No?” Peter challenged him, thinking about the Spider-Bear in Tony’s lab. It hadn’t escaped his notice how it seemed to move around the lab between visits. He’d heard tales from Clint regarding its use as a scapegoat. Better the bear than him, Peter had decided, and never brought it up.

 

“I’m not going back to the tower.” Tony’s arms crossed, now, and his eyebrows lifted as he met Peter’s challenge with one of his own. Peter could only blink, surprised. 

 

“Uh— you’re not?”

 

“Nope. I’m coming with you.”

 

“You are  _ not _ babysitting me,” Peter’s voice sharpened as irritation rose up under his chin. “I’m not a  _ kid _ , Tony.”

 

“Jesus, settle down,” Tony waved a hand at him in exasperation. “I’m not trying to  _ babysit _ you. Look: I get it. I don’t like sitting around not doing anything, either. Looking back, I’m surprised you lasted this long inside. But I like to think that I know myself pretty well. And I know that my options are either to go back to the tower and worry or to stick with you and do hero stuff tonight. And I  _ don’t like _ sitting around not doing anything, Spidey.”

 

Peter rolled his shoulders, considering, then shrugged one of them even as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, conflicting signals of nonchalance and anxiety. “Fine,” He agreed, releasing his posture enough to run a hand over the top of his mask. “But I’ve got some conditions.”

 

“I’m coming whether you like it or not,” Tony reminded him with a snort. “But what did you have in mind?”

 

“You’re not in charge of me,” Peter told him, holding up a finger. “This is not a hero-sidekick situation.”

 

“I’m not much of a leader anyway,” Tony shrugged dismissively. “Ask anybody on the team.”

 

“Also— try to stay stealthy, would you? That suit is going to tell anybody in the neighborhood we’re around before we manage to catch anybody doing anything.”

 

“It’s not like these boosters have a volume setting, champ.”

 

Peter frowned, disgruntled, holding up three fingers, now. “Hang back. Let me do the fighting.”

 

“What?” That one took Tony by surprise. “Why?”

 

“I want you to see that I can take care of myself, out here,” Peter said firmly. “I want you to see that I really am  _ good _ at this. I’ve been a little out of my depth, lately, sure, but… I know what I’m doing. At least on the level I usually operate.” He let a little amusement trickle into his tone. “Besides, I don’t want you to accidentally maim some guy with a repulsor blast just for sticking somebody up. Punishment’s gotta fit the crime, Iron Man, and I don’t think you’re really equipped for the kind of combat that your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man usually sees.”

 

Tony snickered, shaking his head. “Okay, that’s fair. I won’t hurt your villains— unless it looks like you’re in over your head.”

 

Peter dropped his head back for a moment, wanting Tony to  _ see _ his exasperation before he relented. “Fine.”

 

“Good,” Tony nodded firmly as the faceplate of the armor slid back down into place. “Then we’re in business.” 

 

“Good,” Peter nodded firmly. “Then let’s get to work. There’s plenty of crime on the streets at three in the morning.” He let his grin return under the mask, turning and leaping back into open air. He could hear Tony’s repulsors firing up behind him and he had to wonder what kind of damage those things did to streets and buildings on a regular basis. Surely that kind of power could melt a little asphalt.

 

He put the thought out of his mind, stacking it right behind the question of whether the suits counted as robots or not.

 

It could be kind of fun, Peter thought instead, flipping more than was strictly necessary as he and Iron Man flew through the streets of New York City. It could be kind of fun, having Tony here. The man was swooping and spinning around him, always careful of Peter’s anchor lines, and it was clear that he was enjoying himself, despite his earlier worries.

 

Peter’s spider-sense, long silent since his internment in the tower, gave him a warning and Peter felt the lead weight of determination settle in his gut as he abruptly changed directions, leaving Tony to follow. 

 

“Hang back,” Peter spoke, letting the words carry through the air. “Don’t let them hear you.”

 

“Who?” Tony prodded, sounding somewhat baffled.

 

“Shh,” Peter hushed him, unnecessarily, because Tony was already touching down on a roof nearby. The quiet that fell was enough for Peter to land against a wall, head facing towards the ground, as he scurried down the wall and towards the corner that lead into an alley.

 

New York ought to wall these things up, Peter thought with a snort. Nothing good ever happened in an alley.

 

True to form, there were three figures standing, half-hidden by the dark. He could hear a threatening voice, but he was distracted from the words by a flash of steel.

 

A man and a woman, he saw, behind held up by a man with a knife. Classic Spider-Man stuff. Easy peasy. He  _ really  _ hoped that Tony could see this, somehow.

 

Peter dropped down to the ground behind the robber, startling yelps out of the couple. The criminal whipped around, blade already swinging, but Peter caught him by the wrist, a grin spread wide across his face.

 

“Hey there,” Peter’s chipper voice rang out in the alley. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

 

“Spider-Man!” The mugger dropped the knife immediately, looking shaken. “Don’t hurt me, I— it was just— I won’t do it again, I  _ swear _ .”

 

Peter blinked in surprise, then beamed. “Sure, buddy,” He agreed, casually toeing the knife out of reach. “Just gonna—” He flicked his free hand downwards, spraying webbing onto the villain’s feet. Up to the knees, he reminded himself, wryly amused as he thought of his first meeting with Deadpool. “There we go. How’s that feel? Nice and sticky? Good. Now, are you folks—” he turned to the couple, ready to check and make sure that they were alright, but to his surprise, they were already disappearing around the corner of the alley back onto the street. He blinked, surprised, and looked at the mugger again, who was still staring at him with wide eyes. Huh.

 

“Hey, Tony,” Peter said, and for a moment the crook looked like he thought Peter was probably insane. “Would you check on that couple who just came out of the alley? I just gotta call the police real quick.”

 

“Sure,” Tony agreed, and Peter could hear the suit lifting off nearby. “All done already, huh?”

 

“Sure am,” Peter agreed proudly. “What did I tell you? I’m good.” He fished the phone out of his pocket and dialed 911, holding it to his ear as he listened to the ringing.

 

“Nine-one-one,” An operator answered after a few moments. “What’s your emergency?”

 

“Yeah, Spider-Man just caught a mugger near Thirty-third and Park,” Peter announced, and there was a beat of silence before the reply that just didn’t quite sit right with Peter.

 

“You said Spider-Man caught a mugger? Are you nearby?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed. “I can get you some business names, hang on—”

 

“Stay calm,” The operator advised. “Get inside a nearby building. Officers are on their way.”

 

“Great,” Peter agreed, frowning a little. “Thanks.” He held the phone away from his ear, looking at the screen. Completely innocuous, nothing visible to mark the call as suspicious. So why was his spidey-sense warning him about it? He hung up, glancing at the mugger, who flinched away from his gaze. “Okay, well,” He took a step back. “The police are on their way. You stay put, ok? They’ll get you out of that stuff.” He turned and scrambled back up the wall, turning his attention back to the comm. He wondered if Tony could hear everything he was saying. It would stand to reason. “So are they okay?”

 

“They’re fine,” Tony sounded somewhat distracted. “A little shaken up, but none the worse for wear. On their way home, safe and sound.”

 

“Good,” Peter frowned, standing on the edge of the roof, scanning for any sign of Tony. He wasn’t immediately visible, but Peter knew that he was nearby. He would just wait, he supposed. “Usually people stick around a little longer than that.”

 

“Well, it  _ is _ three in the morning. And they just got assaulted in an alley,” Tony pointed out sensibly. “I don’t think  _ anybody _ would want to hang around after that.”

 

“I guess,” Peter agreed, attention drawn towards the sound of those repulsors. Tony may not be stealthy, Peter reflected, but at least that made it easy for his teammates to find him. 

 

“Speaking of, shouldn’t we get going?” Tony prompted him over the comms, landing on the other end of the roof, closer to the tower. Peter snorted.

 

“Come on,” He rebuked the older man. “You’re kidding, right? We’ve only stopped one crime. You think that’s all that’s going on tonight? As if.”

 

“Don’t sass me, young man,” Tony griped, jerking a thumb back the way they had come. “I’ll race you, how about that?”

 

“Sure,” Peter agreed, taking a deliberate step back with a grin. “Race you to the edge of Hell’s Kitchen. Don’t go in, though, Daredevil’s pretty intimidating.”

 

“Spidey,” Tony objected, but Peter was already whipping around, launching down towards the street. More things to slingshot off of, lower down, Peter thought as the wind snatched his laughter away from his lips. He was sure Tony still heard it, though, thanks to the comms.

 

“Jesus, kid,” He could hear Tony griping, taking off after him. “You know you can’t beat me, right? You’re fast, sure, but you don’t have a chance against this suit.  _ I designed it _ , remember?”

 

“That ego’s going to get you in trouble one day,” Peter told him, watching as the Iron Man suit flew by overhead. Tony wasn’t going as fast as he could: just fast enough to make his point, Peter suspected. He was  _ gloating. _ That made it really easy to feel no guilt about latching onto the suit with a web, hitching a ride.

 

Tony wobbled in the air as the additional weight threw off his repulsors, and Peter could see the glow of the faceplate Tony looked down at him.

 

“Do I look like a taxi service to you?”

 

“I sure hope not, ‘cause I’m not about to tip,” Peter replied, using a sharp tug against the armor to fling himself ahead again even as Tony pulled up, presumably to rebuke him further.

 

Nice try, chump, Peter laughed to himself, concentrating on moving ahead while Tony regained his balance behind him. Sure, it wasn’t exactly  _ fair _ . In fact, it was downright playing dirty. But if Peter wanted to have a hope of getting ahead, well, a supehero had to do what a superhero had to do.

 

Tony didn’t seem that mad, though. Maybe a  _ little _ annoyed. But it was still mostly amusement in his tone when he called Peter a little monster and demanded they both go back to the tower.

 

“You gotta catch me, first,” Peter demanded, swooping low. 

 

“What is this, tag?” Tony snorted. “We’re not out here to play games.”

 

“No,” Peter agreed. “But we might as well, as long as we’re already out. Better than brooding in a tower and waiting for a secret government agency to tell you what to do!” There was a moment of silence as Peter whipped around several corners in quick succession. He couldn’t lose Iron Man, obviously, not with a tracker in his suit, but he could make it a pain to follow him.

 

“Low blow, kid,” Tony finally said, and Peter could hear the repulsors again as Tony swerved between buildings behind him.

 

“Truth hurts,” Peter answered, but he was distracted now. Iron Man was closing in, so he would need to focus on his aerial maneuvers if he wanted to avoid getting snatched. The little time he had as Tony approached was enough to allow for a sharp swing upwards, flinging himself high into the air. Tony had some kind of night vision, or heat vision, or infrared vision, or  _ something _ , Peter was sure, probably even all of them, so it wasn’t like he could disappear into the shadows, but hey, he could do his best.

 

As Tony’s gaze lifted to follow him, Peter landed another spray of webbing against Tony’s chest and pulled hard. Tony was launched upwards even as Peter slung down, whooping as he passed right by Iron Man’s smug dumb neutral faceplate.

 

“Damnit, kid!” Tony was wobbling again. The man was incredible in his suit: anyone else might have spiraled out of control and crashed. That didn’t mean that he could immediately adjust to all these forces acting on his suit, though, especially when Peter’s applied force was only aided by Tony’s own upward momentum.

 

“See ya, sucker,” Peter snickered into the comm, wondering if there even  _ was _ a way to turn off the device. He hit the ground, stumbling along the sidewalk as he caught his stride. There were few pedestrians, this late, but a group of men clustered nearby, smoking, were taken by surprise. Peter flashed them a quick salute before taking off in a burst of speed that startled cries out of his observers. He might have felt the pavement crunch under one of his feet. Whoops. Jameson would never let him hear the end of that one, if he got wind of it. He could almost see the headline: Vigilante Vandalizes Public Property. He  _ loved _ alliteration.

 

“Holy  _ shit _ ,” Tony was flying above him, now. Peter was tempted to sling another web, but he knew that it would only slow him down, now. He could swing pretty fast, sure, but he was much faster on foot. Better to just keep running. “You’re really booking it down there, Spidey. You know how fast you’re going right now?”

 

“Beats me,” Peter answered somewhat breathlessly, leaping over a cordoned off section of sidewalk. “Why? You got a speedometer in that thing?”

 

“You’re clocking in at about ninety-three miles an hour,” Tony informed him, and Peter stumbled.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Seriously,” Tony agreed, sounding kind of excited, now. “Think you can go faster?”

 

“Definitely,” Peter’s head bobbed as his voice rose in pitch, excitement washing over him like he’d just run through a crowd of it. “Park street. Meet me on Park street. It’s long enough that I can really  _ go _ .”

 

“Hell yes.”

 

Peter laughed, nearly skidding as he tried to slow enough to take a turn without smearing himself across the nearest walls.

 

“Watch out down there, Skippy,”

 

“You’re not my real dad,” Peter teased back, working a genuine laugh out of Tony.  _ Nice _ .

 

“Yeah, well, you’re a punk anyway,” Tony flew low, probably lower than he ought to be, right in Peter’s periphery vision. Ah, it wasn’t like there was anyone out down here anyway.

 

“Better a punk than an old fogie,” Peter replied, slowing into a trot as he arrived at the artery street.

 

“Who are you calling old?”

 

“You, obviously,” Peter answered, looking up and down the street.

 

“You’d better be glad you’re not my kid,” Tony warned him. “Or else you’d be grounded for a  _ year _ with that kind of talk.”

 

“Too bad for you,” Peter shot a grin up at the hovering figure.

 

“Get that smug look off your face.”

 

“I’m wearing a mask.”

 

“I still know it’s there. Get going already, would you? We don’t have all night.”

 

“Sure we do,” Peter agreed, turning away from the tower. More area to cover, that way, he determined. Plus, it would keep Tony from attempting to corral him back into the tower as soon as they got close. “Ready?”

 

“Waiting on you,” Tony informed him primly, and Peter couldn’t help but to roll his eyes before breaking into a run. Tony stayed overhead, presumably measuring his speed. Peter wasn’t sure if there was some kind of motion tracker that told Tony how fast Peter was moving or if he was just tracking his own speed, but either way, Peter was impressed. That suit was  _ so _ cool.

 

“How’s it looking, Tony?” Peter called up to him.

 

“You don’t have to shout,” Tony reminded him, and Peter grimaced, embarrassed. “You’re about to break a hundred. That as fast as you can go?”

 

“I can go faster,” Peter shook his head quickly, then lowered it and ran harder, trying to push himself. He didn’t run like this often, he realized. Usually he stuck to his webs. But as he whipped by storefronts and parking meters, doorways and side streets, for a moment he couldn’t understand why he ever allowed himself to travel any other way.

 

“One-ten! Look at you go, Spidey!” Tony was crowing up above, and Peter allowed a grin to slip through his concentration. He could go faster, he told himself, breaths coming quick and thin. “Hey, careful,” Tony’s voice sharpened into alarm. “You’re breaking the sidewalk a little there, champ.”

 

“Shoot!” Peter shot a glance over his shoulder and promptly tripped, launching himself into a series of somersaults as he practically bounced down the sidewalk, shouting the entire way.

 

“Spidey!” He could hear Tony’s voice, followed by the repulsors until Tony snatched him up mid-roll. “You okay?”

 

“Whoa,” Peter drooped in Iron Man’s grip, laughing. “That was— haha.” He giggled, head spinning nearly as fast as he had been moments before.

 

“God damnit,” Tony snorted, landing and setting Peter down on his feet. “Did you hurt anything? Hit your head?”

 

“Nah,” Peter pressed both hands to his head, trying to regain his sense of balance. “Little bit dizzy, but I think that has more to do with the fact that I just did like, four hundred rolls in like, three seconds.”

 

“That was really something,” Tony agreed, faceplate opening. He fixed Peter with a gaze that was somehow both amused and skeptical at the same time. “You got up to one hundred nineteen miles per hour, right there at the end. You’re sure you’re okay?”

 

“I’ll be right as rain in like, two minutes,” Peter promised, sitting his sorry butt down right there on the sidewalk before he could make a fool of himself by falling over. Or, rather, before he could make even  _ more _ of a fool of himself. “Hey, the suit held up great, though,” Peter realized with delight. “My old one would have gotten shredded with a stunt like that one.”

 

“Well what did you expect?” Tony sniffed, arms crossing as he took a step back, examining the young hero at his feet. “ _ I _ made it.”

 

“Alright, Mr. Ego,” Peter snorted, grinning up at Tony as the man shut his eyes.

 

“Jesus, I just almost had a heart attack,” Tony confessed. “I thought you were about to call me Mr. Stark again.”

 

Peter barked a laugh. “You’d rather be called Mr. Ego than Mr. Stark?”

 

“I’ll take Mr. Ego,” Tony agreed. “That one’s too accurate to deny.”

 

“And Stark isn’t?” Peter demanded, chortling.

 

“Live with it,” Tony advised him, holding out a hand. “Please tell me this was enough to knock some sense into that empty head of yours and we can go back to the tower, now.”

 

“Tony,” Peter said sternly, accepting the hand up. “I’m worried about you. I think you might be a shut-in.”

 

“I’m not a shut-in,” Tony answered him flatly, looking openly unimpressed. “I get invited to events all over the country. All over the  _ world _ .”

 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Peter advised. “Talk to me again once you actually  _ go _ to one.”

 

“I’ll videochat you,” Tony agreed, giving his shoulder a light shove. Peter was relieved to discover that it didn’t do much to his equilibrium. Yeah, he was fine, he decided. 

 

“Cool. But for now there really is more crime to be fighting.” He snickered at the exasperated expression on Tony’s face. “Aw, come on, don’t be like that. Don’t you want to see me fight some more bad guys? I feel like you didn’t get the full experience with the last one. He just kind of gave up as soon as he saw me.”

 

“You’re giving me gray hairs, here, Spider-Man.”

 

“Come on, Tony,” Peter cajoled. “Just a little while longer.”

 

“Alright,” Tony agreed reluctantly, clearly unhappy with the situation even as his faceplate snapped shut again. “But I’m watching your back.”

 

“Sounds great,” Peter agreed, beaming. His spidey-sense tingled and he tilted his head, honing in on the sound of breaking glass. “Let’s get moving, we’ve got work to do.” He shot a web and swung towards the disturbance, Iron Man taking off behind him.

 

Peter and Tony didn’t make it back to the tower until the sun had begun to crest the horizon. Peter was drooping with that kind of tired that spoke of satisfying hard work, and Tony looked exhausted as he stepped out of his suit on the landing deck.

 

“You keep worse hours than I do, kid,” Tony chuckled, reaching over to give Peter a slap on the back. Peter stifled a yawn even as he nodded.

 

“My sleeping habits are kind of off track,” he agreed. “But hey, if you’re going to be up anyway, it’s not a bad way to spend the time.”

 

“For sure,” Tony agreed, casting him an appraising look. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Spider-Man.” Peter glanced back at him, curious. “You weren’t lying. You really know how to handle yourself out there.”

 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Peter agreed, managing to puff up with pride despite the ache of wariness in his bones.

 

“Alright, alright,” Tony snorted. “Don’t make me regret giving you a compliment. You should get to bed, you look dead on your feet.”

 

“Only if you do, too,” Peter quipped back, despite the fact that he was already heading for the elevator.

 

“I intend to,” Tony’s mouth twisted wryly. “You wore an old man out, I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

 

“I am,” Peter answered with a teasing warmth. “Very proud.”

 

“You ever going to let me move you into a permanent suite?” Tony asked him suddenly, and Peter felt a spike of anxiety. Oh, yeah, Peter thought with a blink. Anxiety. He’d actually forgotten about it for a few hours.

 

“I’m good in the guest room,” Peter promised as the elevator opened onto his floor. “Thanks, though. Night, Tony.”

 

“Night, Spidey.” Tony’s eyes stayed on him until the elevator doors shut again and Peter listened to the hydraulics inside as Tony was lifted higher into the tower.

 

Peter turned back to the empty floor, lined with guest rooms. He let the silence fill his ears, preparing for the wash of ache it usually brought, but there was nothing. It was just a quiet space where he could go to sleep.

 

Peter sucked in a deep breath, the only sound to be heard as he stepped forward to enter his room.

 

“Hey JARVIS?”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Thanks for telling Tony, buddy.”

 

“Any time, sir.”

 

\---

 

“Spidey!”

 

Peter leapt to his feet, remote still clutched in one hand as Deadpool burst from the elevator several days later.

 

“Deadpool? What’s going on?” Peter gaped at him across the empty common room. The merc was visibly brimming with excitement even as he rushed across the room towards Peter.

 

“You are never going to believe this,” He gushed. “Guess who I managed to get in contact with?” Peter tilted his head, baffled.

 

“Uh— I don’t know. Who?”

 

“Your mystery man.  _ Noah Montford. _ ”

 

The remote crunched and clattered to the floor.

 

“What?” Peter demanded, stepping forward to grab at Deadpool’s arms. “You talked to him?”

 

“Even better,” Deadpool enthused. “I tied him up in a warehouse.”

 

“You  _ what? _ ” Peter yelped.

 

“You heard me,” Deadpool preened. Peter felt him try to move one arm, presumably to pat him on the head, as he had taken to doing, but Peter’s grip had tightened enough that he gave up on the endeavor fairly quickly. “Long story short, I went to his house and knocked him out and brought him to a warehouse in Little Neck that he owns. The poetic justice couldn’t be denied, Spidey. There was nothing I could do.”

 

“Deadpool,” Peter’s voice was shrill behind the voice modulator. “You can’t just  _ kidnap _ people.”

 

“Sure I can,” Deadpool assured him. “Spidey, look, I know you have all these touchy little moral compunctions and shit, that’s like, your schtick or whatever, but—”

 

“Deadpool, it’ll  _ illegal _ .”

 

Deadpool threw his hands into the air, so perfect a picture of exasperation that, combined with his next words, Peter had to wonder if he’d had this all planned out before he came here. “Spidey, most of vigilantism is illegal! Fighting crime is illegal! How is it that punching a guy in the face is okay, but kidnapping him isn’t?”

 

Peter hesitated. “It’s immoral,” He began, but Deadpool interrupted.

 

“So is punching people in the face.”

 

“But that’s because they’re bad guys!”

 

“And so is  _ he _ .”

 

“But you can’t just—”

 

“Why not?” Deadpool demanded. “Why can’t you?”

 

“It’s just not right!” Peter felt like he was being backed into a corner, here. At least in a moral sense.

 

“I get it, Spidey. Everything you’ve ever seen or heard tells you that this kind of thing is  _ bad _ . It’s  _ evil _ to kidnap someone from their home. It’s  _ evil _ to tie them up in a warehouse. It’s  _ evil _ to interrogate them in order to get a confession on tape. And you’re a good guy, right? So you don’t want to be associated with all that ugliness. You don’t want to get roped into all the  _ evil _ things that you put a stop to. And that’s totally fair. Except for the fact that  _ this is what your job is. _ ” His stare through the mask was so unexpectedly challenging that Peter couldn’t come up with a rebuttal. “It’s not easy, Spider-Man. If it were easy you probably wouldn’t have to do it. But here we are. So are you ready to grow up and do your job, or are you going to sit in Tony Stark’s tower and watch television?”

 

Peter couldn’t deside whether he felt more scolded or determined, so he just nodded firmly. “Okay,” he finally agreed, steeling himself. “Let’s do it.” He faltered after a moment. “But we’re not going to kill him.”

 

“Of course not, angel-face,” Deadpool switched abruptly back into that joking, playful persona as he patted the top of Peter’s head. “I would never put you through all that.” Peter scoffed but shook his head dismissively. 

 

“Okay, whatever. So where is he?”

 

“He’s over in Little Neck,” Deadpool said seriously, heading purposefully towards the balcony. “Like I said. I can take you there.” He pushed open both doors, somewhat dramatically, before whipping around to look at Peter, the light of the blue New York sky behind him. “But only if you carry me.”

 

“If I carry you?” Peter crossed his arms, exasperated. “I’m not carrying you.”

 

“But if you don’t, then we’ll have to take a taxi,” Deadpool reasoned. “And that will take  _ forever _ . You can get us over there in, like, a half hour. It would take way too long in this traffic. Look at all those cars down there, Spidey, we’d never make it before he somehow managed to free himself.”

 

“We don’t have to take a taxi,” Peter frowned. “There’s other methods of transportation.”

 

“So what you’re telling me is that you want to take the subway in your Spider-Man suit?”

 

Peter grimaced. “Well,  _ no _ ,”

 

“You want to ask Tony Stark to drive you?”

 

“No!”

 

“Okay, hot shot, what’s your plan, then?”

 

“My plan is…” Peter floundered helplessly for a moment in the mires of his own pride before glowering under his mask. “To carry you.” He trotted over to the balcony, ignoring Deadpool’s obvious glee. He propped his hands on his hips, critically studying the large man. “I’m just not sure… what the logistics of this are going to be. I need both of my arms to swing.”

 

“Have you ever watched Twilight?”

 

Peter tilted his head, hoping to get his incredulity across even from behind the mask. Not sure that it had worked, he decided to throw in a deadpanned “No.”

 

“Well, that’s a shame, honestly, it being a cultural milestone and all,” Deadpool said with a shrug, giving Peter a gentle push past him out onto the balcony. “But do me a favor: say,  _ you better hold on tight, spider monkey. _ ”

 

“I’m not going to say that.”

 

“You’re such a killjoy,” Deadpool complained. “Alright hold still.”   
  
It took an uncomfortable amount of time and repositioning to get Deadpool situated, clinging to his back— like a spider monkey, apparently— but eventually they got it done. And if Peter threw a loop or two of webbing around Deadpool, just to make sure he wouldn’t slip, well, surely no one could fault him for that.

 

“Try not to scream in my ear,” Peter advised, double checking the levels on his web fluid. As much as it would suck to run out when he was swinging alone, there was no way he was going to risk it when he was carrying Deadpool.

 

“No promises, Spidey,” Deadpool replied, giving him a squeeze. “Let’s get going.”

 

Peter nodded once and clambered up onto the balcony rail. It was weird, having Deadpool on his back like that: it was throwing off his balance, for sure, but it didn’t feel as heavy as he would have assumed. Super strength was so strange. 

 

“Hey, Spidey, can I tell you something?”

 

The two of them teetered on the railing for a moment as Peter tried to adjust to Deadpool’s weight.

 

“What is it, Deadpool?”

 

“I think this is the most magical moment in my life.”

 

Peter rolled his eyes and tipped forward off the balcony. It definitely shouldn’t have surprised him when Deadpool started screaming in his ear, but he was startled nonetheless. It was even more of a shock when Deadpool continued to shout as they swung away from the tower. And would wonders never cease? Yet another surprise as Tony’s voice came over the comm.

 

“You know, kid,” Tony drawled. “I know we had that whole bonding thing the other day where I told you you knew how to fight, and I know that there was kind of this unspoken agreement that I wouldn’t hassle you about going out anymore. But somehow I didn’t really think you’d be ducking out again this soon. Is that screaming?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Peter agreed. “But it’s just Deadpool, don’t worry about it.”

 

“That, weirdly enough, doesn’t make me worry any less. But Spidey, honestly, I don’t know how many times you want me to tell you, you don’t have to shout.”

 

“Are you sure? Deadpool is pretty loud.”

 

“You think I didn’t include some top-notch noise filtering on these things? Did you think we were going to sit around in quiet rooms to talk over the comms? No, kid, these things are going to be used in disaster situations. It’s loud. It’s fine. I can hear you.”

 

“Gotcha. Sorry.”

 

“So what’s going on? Why is Deadpool screaming?”

 

“Oh— right. We’re going to do a crime thing, and I’m carrying him.”

 

“Carrying him? Jesus Christ. Spidey, what the hell am I supposed to do with this information? Your life choices are insane.”

 

“You’re telling me.”

 

“Is that Tony Stark? Are you talking to him on the phone?” Deadpool was still shouting, but at least now it was a little more focused than the aimless screaming. So that was a plus, he supposed.

 

“Not the phone, but yeah, it’s Tony,” Peter agreed.

 

“Wow! Tony Stark!”

 

“Jesus  _ Christ. _ Okay. I’m cutting the line. Just… call if you need anything.”

 

“Sure, will do. Thanks, Tony.” The noise from the other end cut off and Peter was relieved to realize that Deadpool wasn’t yelling anymore.

 

“Why didn’t you tell him where we were going?” Peter spoke too soon. He was yelling again.

 

“What do you mean? I told him we were going to do a crime thing.”

 

“Yeah, but this is kind of bigger than just a crime thing, right? You said that this guy called you right before that big fight with Doc Ock, right? He had something to do with what happened to Gwen?”

 

“Um— yeah,” Peter’s anxiety rose up in his throat as he swung onto the bridge, crossing into Queens. “I guess… I didn’t think about it.”

 

“Still a lone wolf at heart, huh?” Deadpool’s cheerful call over the wind clashed sharply against Peter’s sudden racing heart. “I can empathize with that.”

 

Peter didn’t answer. He was caught up in thought. Why  _ hadn’t _ he told Tony what was going on? His first instinct had been to just gloss over the details, or rather, to exclude them altogether. He left out the seriousness of the situation, ignoring the gravity of what they were doing, pushing away Tony’s offer of help before it had ever come.

 

Why had he done that? It could only be good to have Avengers on this mission, right? They had more experience with this kind of thing, surely. They would now what to do. So why didn’t he ask them?

 

Maybe, his fear suggested, he didn’t want this guy to know about anyone else he cared about.

 

Peter shook off his distraction, despite the slightly disturbed feeling in his gut that lingered whether he liked it or not. He had time for introspection later. Right now he needed to pay attention, because Deadpool was yelling directions in his ear. The villain that was trapped near the bay was much more important than his own internal monologue.

 

Of course, that kind of thinking only helped to drive his anxiety up past his chin all the way to his eyes. He wasn’t drowning in it, he told himself. He was okay. He had Deadpool to help him through this, and then… this guy, Montford, he was going to go to jail. Then it would all be over. He could put all this behind him and try to move on with his life. He could close the book on this chapter and leave it behind forever.

 

“It’s this one up here,” Deadpool told him, and Peter was startled to realize that they’d already traveled much farther than he had thought. How long had he been ruminating on that? He mentally scolded himself, frustrated that despite his own admonishments that he didn’t have time to overthink, that was exactly what he’d done anyway.

 

On autopilot, Peter touched down on the roof.

 

The sun was setting.

 

Peter was going to face his biggest villain.

 

He was going to figure out what his plan was, he was going to get a confession out of him, he was going to find out where the clones were. He was going to finally wrap up this case.

 

And then Noah Montford would face justice.

 

Peter let out a shuddering breath, cutting the webs so that Deadpool could straighten up, finally releasing Peter from the weird off-balance feeling, but despite the change in position, it didn’t go away.

 

God, he was terrified.

 

He was tied up, Deadpool had said. He couldn’t do anything to Peter. He couldn’t hurt him.

 

Aside from those weird mind powers of his, Peter reminded himself grimly.

 

“Okay,” He found himself saying, voice muffled past his barely-functioning ears. “So what’s the situation in there? Is he like, just in the middle of the floor? Do you think he’s still unconscious?”

 

“Well, no, he’s in like, an office? Up above the main floor,” Deadpool gestured to the roof access. “We can probably get there from here. And he might be conscious, I’m not sure. I hit him pretty good, but there’s really no telling.”

 

“Okay,” Peter nodded firmly. “Do you know about his powers?” 

 

“I know he has some kind of psychic ability,” Deadpool answered with a shrug. “That was in that file I gave you. But I guess I’m not super clear on the specifics.”

 

“He can make you relive memories,” Peter told him, remembering the chilling feeling of finding himself suddenly completely preoccupied with the vision in front of his eyes.  “Really… vividly. Like you’re there again.”

 

“Yeesh,” Deadpool muttered through gritted teeth. “That’s… a handy power to have, I guess. Not so handy for us, though. Can you break out of it?”

 

“Not as far as I know,” Peter admitted. “But I didn’t even think to try. You think about the things you thought about when the memory happened. I wasn’t thinking about him.

 

“Okay,” Deadpool nodded thoughtfully. “Well… can he target more than one person at a time?”

 

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged helplessly. “I’ve only ever gone up against him alone. I’ve never had anyone with me before, so I really couldn’t say.”

 

“That’s alright, Spidey,” Deadpool assured him. “We’ll work it out. Even if the both of us end up daydreaming, what’s he going to do? Sit there and starve? He’ll have to cut it out eventually.”

 

“I guess so,” Peter agreed, hesitating a moment before giving a firm nod. “Okay. Let’s do this.” He strode across to the rooftop door, testing the knob. Locked.

 

The warehouse belonged to Montford, he reminded himself with a shrug, twisting the knob sharply and hearing the lock snap inside.

 

The door creaked open.

 

“Why does this feel like I’m on the way to a boss fight in a video game?” Peter laughed uncomfortably, stepping back to let Deadpool take the lead.

 

“Well, this guy basically is the boss, right?” Deadpool mused, moving forward. “He’s been pulling all the strings from the beginning. With Doc Ock, with Gwen, with the clones. Everything.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, grimacing as they left the rooftop and eased into the shadowed interior of the warehouse. High on the walls there were small windows, but on the ground level solid concrete dominated. There was a large open floor below, but there was no one else in sight. There would hardly be room, due to the stacks and stacks of crates.

 

He wondered if this was where all those guns he’d seen before had gone.

 

It was quiet inside, but Peter could hear creaking wood from further down the catwalk they’d entered onto. Montford, he realized. He was awake.

 

As if to reassure him of the fact, he heard a voice shouting a moment later, apparently reacting to the metallic echo of their feet against the grating below them.

 

“Hello? Who’s out there?”

 

“I didn’t think I’d remember his voice,” Peter admitted as a shiver of cold, like eating ice cubes, settled into his stomach. “He has a normal guy voice, you know. Just some guy. But— that’s him. Crap, man. This is… this is the guy.”

 

“You good, Spidey?” Deadpool shot him a glance over his shoulder, voice quiet. “You need a minute before we go in there?”

 

“No,” Peter answered quickly. “No, I’m good. Really. Let’s get this done.” Deadpool studied him a moment longer before giving a firm nod and turning forward again, leading to the center door of three. One more nod from Peter was all it took for Deadpool to open the door, striding in with that classic Deadpool flounce.

 

“Well he- _ llo _ , Mr. Montford, dear,” Deadpool crooned. “Nice to see you awake. Not that you don’t look like an absolute angel when you’re asleep, of course. Aside from that bruise you’ve got there. Sorry not sorry.”

 

Peter followed more slowly, letting the chattering from the mercenary distract as he entered the room. The overhead light was turned on in the modern-looking office, illuminating the face he’d never seen before.

 

It was almost… underwhelming. He’d seen plenty of villains, obviously, and they almost all looked like normal people. He didn’t know why he was surprised. A man in his forties, maybe, close-cut brown hair, a hint of stubble without amounting to a real beard, and brown eyes that shifted to look at Peter. He didn’t look as startled as Peter would have thought he would, but that made sense, he supposed. His name was probably on the list when Montford woke up and started wondering who had kidnapped him.

 

“Spider-Man,” that calm voice, still sounding so in control even as he sat tied to a chair in the middle of his own office. “I knew we’d see each other again, but I didn’t think that our meeting would be under these kinds of circumstances.”

 

“Don’t ignore me,” Deadpool demanded, sounding scandalized, but Montford only spared him a short disparaging glance before turning those very average eyes back to Peter.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Montford drawled, judgemental and almost bored-sounding.

 

“I think you know very well,” Peter said firmly, arms crossing over his chest. “Why you’re here.”

 

“You’re right,” Montford agreed, chin lowering slightly as his eyes bored into Peter’s. “Maybe I do.”

 

_ Peter came to on the dock, panting, and saw that the men who should have been in front of him were gone.  _

 

_ “Spider-Man.” Peter didn’t move, this time, shaking in his boots. What was happening? “It’s alright. I don’t intend to hurt you.” _

 

_ “Should we take his mask, boss?” Peter’s blood went cold and his hands clenched into fists as he listened hard, staring at the empty water ahead of him, the boat rocking gently to his left. _

 

_ “No,” Came the sharp reply, but then the voice gentled, and Peter heard footsteps approaching him. “No, Spider-Man. I’m not going to unmask you.” There were a few more moments of silence, but then the smooth tenor voice spoke right in his ear. “I admire what you’re doing.” _

 

Peter fell back into reality with a gasp to discover that Deadpool had just punched Montford in the jaw, sending him reeling.

 

“Do that again,” The mercenary was hissing. “Do it again, I dare you. See what happens to you.”

 

Montford shot a hateful glare towards Deadpool, grimacing as the assassin loomed over him, but it was clear that he didn’t want to garner another hit like that, because when he looked at Peter again, he didn’t shift away from reality.

 

“I’m not your enemy, Peter,” Montford said, voice sharp, now, and Peter cringed.

 

“Who told you who I am?” He demanded. Montford glanced at Deadpool again, wary, but the mercenary bristled, almost seeming to grow larger.

 

“If you don’t answer his questions, I swear to god,” He growled, and although his back was turned to Peter, there must have been something fearful on his face before Montford looked away quickly. 

 

“The Chameleon did.”

 

Peter ran a hand over his eyes. “How did he find out?” He was reeling. Was this before Dmitri had decided to help him? Or was it after? Why hadn’t he ever mentioned it?

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Bullshit,” Deadpool spat. “Tell the truth, asswipe.”

 

“I don’t know!” Montford flinched away as Deadpool raised his fist again. “He’s the spy, damnit, I just used the information he passed me.”

 

“You used that information to get a sixteen year old girl killed,” Peter said, his voice iron hard. He could feel a little of that resolve returning: the resolve he’d used to finally defeat Octavius. “How could you do that? Let a maniac loose on an innocent teenage girl?”

 

“I did what I had to do,” Montford told him, but his eyes flickered away from Peter’s. There was silence in the small room for nearly a minute as Peter struggled to rein in his wayward emotions, but when he managed to speak again, that steel will was still audible.

 

“What else did you learn from the Chameleon?”

 

“Plenty of things,” Montford said with a scowl. “Your name. Your school. There was a file on your family and friends.” He smirked. “Pretty short list.”

 

Deadpool reared back and planted a kick against Montford’s side, knocking over the entire chair and tearing a cry of pain and surprise from the villain. “No one asked for your commentary, jackass,” Deadpool reminded him, and that voice sent a shiver of horror through Peter. He was glad that it wasn’t aimed at  _ him _ .

 

“Fuck you,” Montford hissed, squirming in his bonds as Deadpool reached down and yanked the chair back upright. “I’m a law-abiding citizen in the eyes of the public, you know,” He warned. “You’re going to face backlash for this, I’ll make  _ sure of it _ .”

 

“Not if you don’t make it out of here alive,” Deadpool whispered to him, and Peter was  _ pretty sure _ he was bluffing. It seemed to work in cowing Montford, though, so he let it slide without correction.

 

“The only way you’re getting out of this,” Peter told him, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Is with a confession on tape.”

 

“A confession?” Montford spat. “Not likely.”

 

“Your choice,” Deadpool answered flippantly, pulling a gun out of one of his hip holsters and aiming it towards Montford. It was both horrifying and inspiring, how quickly Montford’s entire demeanor changed from calm, if a little angry, to near panic.

 

“Hey, hey, wait! Point that somewhere else! This isn’t necessary!”

 

“Can’t agree,” Deadpool purred, cocking the gun and leveling it directly towards Montford’s head. It went against every fiber of Peter’s being to let him do it, but Peter held himself back, arms staying crossed over his chest as he watched Deadpool threaten the criminal.

 

“Alright, alright, I’ll say whatever you want, damnit, just get that shit out of my face!” Montford yelped, trying to duck forward and back to avoid being the target of the bullet, but Deadpool’s aim followed him steadily.

 

“Alright, Deadpool,” Peter stepped forward, one hand out in a restraining gesture. To his relief, Deadpool backed down, lowering the pistol to aim at the floor. His other hand opened the voice recording app on his phone. “State your name.”

 

There was a moment of hesitation before a resentful “Noah Montford.” He was glaring daggers at Deadpool, but he didn’t resist.

 

“Have you been illegally importing weapons?” Peter prompted him.

 

Another silence, this one longer. “Yes,” he finally admitted.

 

“Say it.”

 

“I have been illegally importing weapons.”

 

“You hired Otto Octavius, an escaped felon, to work for you.”

 

“I did. I hired him.”

 

“To clone superheroes.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“For what purpose?”

 

Peter could practically see Montford’s teeth gritting behind his closed lips. “This is coercion,” he finally said, looking nervous. “This is inadmissible to court.”

 

“We’re not coercing you,” Deadpool purred. “It would be coercion if I did  _ this _ ,” He pulled his fist back and hit him again.

 

“Deadpool!” Peter cried, frustrated. “Knock it off.”

 

“What?” Deadpool turned to look at him and Peter had the distinct impression of fluttering eyelashes. “His head?”

 

“No! Just stop! He’s right. We can’t use this.” Peter saw Montford slump with relief as he stopped recording.

 

“Aw, come on, Spidey,” Deadpool complained. “If we’re not going to use it anyway, we might as well knock him around a little more. They get more cooperative the more you hit them.”

 

“That’s not the way we do things,” Peter told him firmly, but the look Deadpool gave him then nearly knocked the wind out of him.

 

“Yes, it is, Spidey,” Deadpool reminded him. “You agreed with me earlier. We have to do illegal things if we want to get the job done. That’s just how this works.” Peter’s head dropped as he stared at the ground, and he heard a sigh from Deadpool. “Okay,” his voice was softer, then. Understanding. “Okay, Spidey. It’s cool. I get it. You’re still a kid. You’re still new to all this. You just… need to be taught.”

 

“Taught?” Peter frowned. “I don’t think this is a lesson I want to learn, Deadpool.”

 

“I don’t think it’s a lesson anyone wants to learn, baby boy,” Deadpool grimaced at him. “But everybody in this business learns it eventually. Force is required sometimes, whether you want it to be that way or not. And with a guy like this, sometimes it’s the only thing that works.”

 

Peter looked up as Deadpool came over to him, his empty hand gripping Peter’s shoulder. “I’m here, kid. I’m not trying to push you or anything, but we need to get this done, right?”

 

“Right,” Peter agreed reluctantly.

 

“I’m here.” Peter couldn’t see his eyes through the mask, but there was something comforting about him anyway. “But I can’t do everything for you. You’re in charge of this interrogation, boss. So what else do you want to ask him? Just for you. Not for the law, not for justice. What do  _ you need to know _ to sleep at night?”

 

Peter looked down, frowning. “I guess I want to know… why.” Peter looked at Montford, who was watching them with a building fear behind his eyes. “Why did you do this to me? To Gwen? To the city?”

 

“You got in my way,” Montford told him bitterly. “I was willing to be allies, but you kept trying to stop me at every turn. So I had to stop  _ you _ . I was hoping that the girl would be enough of a message, but I guess not.”

 

“And what about New York? The power outages— the guns— the clones— why?”

 

“Because,” At this, Montford’s eyes shone with something almost like pride. “It’s what I wanted to do.”

 

Peter felt hatred flare to life in his chest and his hands clenched tightly into fists.

 

“Because you wanted to?” He repeated, voice shaking. “People died, even more people were  _ going to die _ , because you  _ wanted  _ to?”

 

“Spidey,” Deadpool’s voice was soft. “You ok?”

 

“No, I’m not okay,” Peter answered him, and he felt like his fury was coming off him like electricity, like sparks flashing through the air, striking and burning against everything in the room. “What kind of person— who would ever—”

 

Deadpool’s hand was still on his shoulder, firm and supportive. “Is there anything else you want to ask him?” All Peter could do was shake his head no. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. He was nearly blinded by rage. “Okay. It’s okay, Spidey. It’s going to be over soon. There’s nothing else to do but finish this now, right?”

 

Peter didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

 

Deadpool took Peter’s hand and placed the gun in it.

 

“It’s this or nothing, now, Spidey,” Deadpool advised him as Montford gaped with horror. “We can’t take him to the police. He’d get out without ever seeing a trial.”

 

“What are you doing?” Montford demanded.

 

“Spidey,” Deadpool’s voice was so quiet. “I know it’s hard. I know it is. But it’s  _ necessary _ . You get that, right? If we don’t do this now, he’s going to ruin this city. He’s going to keep going, making this bigger and bigger, killing more and more people. Spidey, do you understand that?”

 

Peter swallowed, but he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move.

 

Deadpool gripped him by the elbow and raised his rigid arm. “Right there, Spidey,” he murmured as Montford began to shout. “If you shoot him right there, he won’t even live long enough to feel it hurt.”

 

Peter was shaking.

 

“Just pull the trigger, Spidey,” Deadpool’s voice was the only thing he could hear in that one moment, but then very suddenly, three things happened in quick succession.

 

First, Peter’s phone began to ring. He’d forgotten to put it on silent, he realized with a flat, dull disinterest as Rick Astley’s  _ Never Gonna Give You Up _ played too loudly in the room. Deadpool’s ringtone, he recognized. 

 

He looked at Deadpool, who was most decidedly not on his phone. Deadpool met his gaze evenly, not so much as flinching.

 

Second, the lights in the room flicked off, and the complete darkness assured him that outside, the streetlights had shut off as well. He couldn’t see Montford, he couldn’t see Deadpool, he couldn’t even see the gun at the end of his arm.

 

Third was the sound of a gunshot, followed by a cry of agony. There was the sound of the gun hitting the floor as it fell out of Peter’s hand, followed by a hushed, terrified, “ _ Dmitri. _ ”

 

It was a different voice than before that answered him in the dark. A familiar voice, soft with reverence, as it always seemed to be when it said his name. “Peter.”

 

“Did I— did you—”

 

“Shh,” Dmitri’s voice was close, but Peter didn’t move. “I’m proud of you, Peter. You’re so brave. You just have a little more work to do before you’re really ready for this world.”

 

“You killed him.”

 

“Next time,” Dmitri assured him, voice still soft and sweet despite the words. “You’ll be the one to do it. I’ll help you for as long as you need it, Peter, but I know you can do this.”

 

“I— I—” 

 

“You need time,” Dmitri murmured sympathetically. “This has been hard on you. I know that. It gets easier, though, I promise.”

 

“Dmitri—”

 

“My dear, sweet Peter,” Dmitri sighed. “Go back to your tower. I’ll get in contact with you again soon, don’t worry. Everything will work out.” Peter didn’t answer as the sound of footsteps moved away from him, pausing where he thought the doorway was before turning and walking down the catwalk they’d come in on.

 

Peter was left standing alone in the dark, jamming his fingers against the comm in the suit.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;D
> 
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> I look forward to hearing from you! Please let me know what you think about the story!


	17. Incredible to Behold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter! I hope you enjoy it!

**August**

 

_ Peter stood outside the door, a weariness in his chest even as the door opened. Aunt May beamed out at him, but it wasn’t her. It wasn’t Aunt May. _

 

_ “Peter, Gwen,” She exclaimed, and Peter didn’t bother to acknowledge Not-Gwen beside him. “I’m so happy you could make it. Come inside!” _

 

_ “Hi, Aunt May,” Peter stepped forward and hugged her briefly. “Thanks for having us.” He let go and made room for Gwen, who hugged Aunt May as he looked around. The apartment was just as it always was: photos of strangers on the walls, television turned off, sitting silently, Aunt May’s coat hung next to Uncle Ben’s on the rack. “Is Uncle Ben here yet?” _

 

_ “Of course, of course,” Aunt May fussed over him as he and Gwen hung up their coats, shaking off the summer heat. “How are the kids?” Peter hooked his Spider-Man mask onto one of the pegs, cold snuggling down into his gut as he looked at Gwen, then quickly away. He couldn’t bear to look at her, knowing that it wasn’t  _ really _ her. _

 

_ “They’re fine,” Peter answered unenthusiastically. He’d forgotten to get a babysitter, he realized. _

 

_ “Good, good,” They were in the kitchen, watching Aunt May cook. Peter knew she and Gwen were talking, but he tried to block it out. They were talking about things he didn’t understand— clones, secret plans, deception and murder. He grimly put his Spider-Man mask on the table. _

 

_ There was a hand on his shoulder and Peter turned around. He was standing in the park with Uncle Ben, just like always, who hugged him like he always had, and for a few moments, Peter couldn’t breathe. It was that, he thought, that was the worst part. The hug was exactly like every other one, but it felt so  _ wrong _. _

 

_ “Good to see you, Pete,” He mumbled, his face completely unrecognizable. Peter didn’t answer. “Your Aunt May and I have been missin’ you. You don’t stop by much anymore.” _

 

_ “I know,” Peter agreed tiredly, but he didn’t have it in him to say anything else. He didn’t want to be here. _

 

_ “Ah,” His uncle waved a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it. We’re just glad you and Gwen find the time. We know you’re busy.” _

 

_ “Right,” Peter agreed, looking away. The park was blank: no trees, no grass, nothing. It was all empty. There was no bench to place his mask on, so he let it drop into the empty space where his feet weren’t. Gwen’s arm snaked around his waist and he shivered as Aunt May and Uncle Ben showered him with twin smiles that looked revolting on their faces. _

 

_ It was so quiet. There was no sound as he tried not to panic, trapped there in the void with three strangers. _

 

_ “Peter,” Dmitri said, his voice right in Peter’s ear. “Put on the mask.” _

 

Peter opened his eyes, letting out a long, shaking breath. This dream kept coming back, he thought unhappily, fingers slowly unclenching from where they’d been tangled into the blankets, but it was worse every time. He missed when it had been a mostly happy dream where he got to see his family again. God, he missed that.

 

He sat up slowly, running a hand over the top of his mask. He felt like his whole body was vibrating: like someone had unleashed a swarm of bees through every molecule of his body.

 

Peter got out of bed.

 

The lights flicked on, set on low so that the room was barely illuminated so that it didn’t hurt his eyes. JARVIS was a considerate guy, Peter thought emotionlessly. A real class act.

 

He scooped up his phone and left the guest room, a driving need to leave the dream behind chasing him out into the hallway. From there, he supposed, the next place to go was the elevator.

 

“JARVIS,” Peter’s voice was still heavy with sleep. He had to wonder if he was even really awake. “Take me to the common room, please.”

 

“Going out, sir?” JARVIS asked politely, but Peter shook his head.

 

“No— no. I just want to… watch some tv or something.”

 

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS agreed, and the elevator doors slid shut. Peter leaned against the wall, pressing his face into his palms as he tried to soothe the shivering in his brain. All too soon the doors opened again and Peter dropped his hands, pulling himself together as he stepped out onto the common floor.

 

To his surprise, the lights were already turned on before he entered, although they were dim. Someone was sitting on the couch, facing the television, which was turned down. Someone else was apparently draped across the same couch, because a pair of feet were tossed over the far arm.

 

“JARVIS,” Peter spoke quietly to avoid attracting their attention. “Are those Avengers?”

 

“Yes, sir,” There was too much sympathy in JARVIS’s tone for Peter to not feel embarrassed about it, but he appreciated the reassurances. “Cpt. Rogers and Lt. Barnes are on this floor with you.”

 

“No one else? You’re sure?”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

“Okay. Thanks, JARVIS.” Peter headed for the couch, and after only a few steps, Steve turned his head to look at him, a tired-looking smile on his face.

 

“Hi there, Spidey,” He said, his voice quiet. “You’re up late.”

 

Peter shrugged, rounding the couch. Bucky was the one lying down, unsurprisingly, but the way his head was cushioned on Steve’s lap as Steve’s fingers combed slowly through long, tangled hair was new. At least, as far as Peter knew, it was, but based on their apparent comfort with the position, it was far from the first time they’d found themselves this way. He was suddenly struck with the realization that he’d vastly misunderstood the nature of their relationship when he’d labeled them as brothers in the Avengers family.

 

He gave Peter a lazy salute, smiling faintly, but there was something in his eyes that told Peter it wasn’t sincere. There was a deep, heavy sadness there: the kind of leaden sadness that poured inside one’s bones and lay there, weighing every limb down like nails diving towards the center of the earth. The fact that he’d managed to wave even half-heartedly was worthy of applause, Peter thought, sympathy aching under his collarbone. 

 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Peter said finally, lingering near an armchair. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

 

“You’re alright,” Steve assured him. “Sit with us. Did you have a bad dream?”

 

Peter shrugged again, eyes shifting away from them even as he drooped down into one of the chairs.

 

“You can say it,” Bucky drawled, and he sounded so tired that it almost hurt. “I did, too.”

 

“Oh,” Peter glanced back towards the two of them. “Really?”

 

“Mm,” Bucky’s eyes were closed, by then, and Steve’s fingers were rubbing at his temples. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Peter muttered, although he kind of did. It felt like there were so many things bottled up inside him now that if he moved too suddenly, every bottle would tip over and spill out all over the freaking floor. Even just one less thing would be a relief. “Kind of. It’s… about my family, though.”

 

“You don’t have to be specific, if you don’t want to,” Steve muttered. “Just say whatever you feel comfortable with.”

 

There were a few minutes of quiet, then: Steve and Bucky seemed reluctant to break Peter out of his thoughts as he struggled to put them in some kind of order.

 

“I guess— it’s this reoccurring dream,” Peter admitted. “It’s supposed to be happy, but now everyone in it— they’re all  _ him _ .”

 

“The Chameleon,” Steve confirmed, and Peter nodded miserably. There were a few beats of silence as the weight of Peter’s worry settled in the air. “It’s normal to feel that way,” Steve said slowly. “You trusted him and he betrayed you.”

 

“It’s not even that,” Peter said, voice rising in pitch. “I’m not  _ sure _ if he did or not. Maybe he told Montford  _ before _ he decided to help me. That’s what he says.” His fingers slid over his hoodie pocket, where he knew his phone sat. 

 

“Are you still talking to him?” Steve asked, and Peter could hear the frown without even looking. 

 

“Kind of,” Peter answered uncomfortably. He knew he probably  _ shouldn’t _ still be texting Dmitri, one wasn’t supposed to  _ text _ one’s villains— but he couldn’t be sure what the truth was. Dmitri had killed Montford, that was undeniable. But as he’d explained over text the next day,  _ all  _ of the Avengers had killed people. It was part of the job, he had insisted. Peter would have to lean that eventually, he had said again and again.

 

As for his part in Gwen’s death, he’d apologized profusely. Dmitri had told Montford about him, that he’d readily admitted, but he swore that he had never expected him to go so far with the information.

 

It was impossible to gauge his truthfulness over text, Peter thought with frustration.

 

“What has he been saying to you?” That was Bucky, his voice so carefully neutral that Peter suspected it was to cover up excess emotion than betraying lack of it.

 

“That he stopped working with Montford a few months ago,” Peter answered with a frown of his own, not looking at either of them. He could feel both of their eyes on him. “And that he didn’t know what was going to happen with Gwen Stacy. He said that he’ll do whatever it takes to prove it.”

 

Peter’s fingers touched his phone through cloth again, anxiety spiking as he considered the other messages: the ones that made his spidey sense tingle in warning. The ones that told him that the Avengers would turn against him if they knew he’d almost shot Montford himself. The ones that told him he wasn’t strong enough to protect people he cared about, yet. The ones that told him that Dmitri would teach him how to protect his loved ones.

 

He should tell them, he thought. He knew what Steve and Bucky would say: that Dmitri was manipulating him. He knew they would demand that he stop talking to him, probably change numbers to avoid him, stop going out until they found him.

 

Peter got that. He did. It was sweet, how much they clearly cared about him. But a part of Peter had to wonder whether Dmitri might be right.

 

He hadn’t been able to save Gwen from Octavius. He hadn’t been able to protect Aunt May in the crash. And Uncle Ben… Uncle Ben needed no explanation, he told himself flatly.

 

And sure, maybe Dmitri didn’t have pure motives— whatever he might be up to, it was clear now that he wasn’t only trying to help Peter out of some philanthropic urge. But maybe Peter shouldn’t dismiss his offers out of hand just because of that. As long as he was  _ aware _ , as long as he  _ knew _ what was going on… maybe he could go into this with his eyes open. Maybe he could learn something, and then leave Dmitri behind if he ever pushed too far.

 

And maybe he was being an idiot. Probably that, Peter admitted to himself. This was a terrible idea. But he just couldn’t let it go, and the indecision was paralyzing.

 

So he was still texting the Chameleon.

 

“You shouldn’t trust him, Spidey,” Steve was telling him, and Peter shot him a pleading look from behind his mask.

 

“Look— I get it. I really appreciate you looking out for me. But I’m just… already having kind of a rough night. Can you save the lecture for later?”

 

Steve softened immediately, voice apologetic. “Of course,” he agreed. “I’m sorry, Spidey, I didn’t mean to jump all over you like that. I just… worry.”

 

“Sorry  _ dad _ ,” Peter tried to joke, but the weird look on Steve’s face made him feel like maybe Steve was taking all of this a little more seriously than he’d like. He sobered a little. “I’m just not used to people worrying about me, I guess.”

 

Quiet fell again. Peter could tell that the other two were still tense with just a glance, and he regretted coming up here. “I didn’t mean to ruin you guys’ night,” Peter sighed, slumping his cheek against the palm of his hand.

 

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Bucky told him flatly. “The night was already crummy to begin with. You might as well sulk up here with us instead of on your own.” That surprised Steve into chuckling, and Peter felt a little of the tension dissolve.

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, forcing himself to relax a little. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” He lolled his head towards them. “Well, I’ve aired my grievances,” he prompted. “Either of you got any complaints?”

 

Steve looked down at Bucky, whose eyes were closed again, so he probably missed the worried crease of Steve’s forehead as he brushed hair back away from Bucky’s face.

 

“What, is that supposed to be my cue?” Bucky wondered aloud, shifting slightly on the couch. He reached over his body with one arm and gripped at his shoulder. Peter suddenly realized he didn’t have his metal arm on. “Nothing specific, kid. It just… catches up with me sometimes.”

 

The Winter Soldier was probably a heavy burden, Peter thought with an inward wince. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like, to have that kind of past. To have those actions attached to his name.

 

Peter had aimed a gun at a man and had a meltdown over it. Bucky…

 

“Do you…” Peter shouldn’t ask questions, he knew, but sometimes his mouth got ahead of his brain. “Do you remember it?”

 

“What?” Bucky’s head lifted out of Steve’s lap long enough for him to look at Peter. “Being the Winter Soldier?” He waited for Peter’s mute nod before dropping back down. “Not all of it. Not all the time. But it’s still more than I  _ want _ to remember.”

 

“How do you deal with it?”

 

That was too far, Peter scolded himself furiously. He clearly didn’t deal  _ very freaking well _ so Peter shouldn’t have brought it up, he should have just left it alone. Why didn’t he quit while he was ahead? Geeze, Bucky probably thought he was such a  _ jerk _ , he was probably wondering why Peter would even  _ ask _ him that.

 

“Well,” Bucky said slowly, shaking Peter out of his horror. “People, mostly.”

 

“People?” Peter prompted him, then immediately wanted to slap himself for it. He still vividly remembered his first impression, where he’d called Bucky the Winter Soldier to his face and the man had walked out, and now he was here  _ pestering him for details. _

 

“Right,” Bucky agreed. “The people around here help, I guess. Seeing Stark and Banner and  _ you _ help remind me that I’m not there anymore.” Peter looked over in time to catch him look up at Steve, who was watching him with a razor-sharp expression. “Seeing people like Steve and Romanoff… well, it’s not always easy. But we can relate to each other, I guess. We can recognize the warning signs and ground each other in the present.”

 

Peter stared, fascinated. What did Natasha have to do with all that? Had she been a part of his past before the Avengers? He was tempted to ask more, but Bucky was already continuing. He filed it in his list of questions for the Avengers right behind how many different kinds of special cameras Tony had installed in the Iron Man suit. Then he decided to ask how many different kinds of special cameras were in his  _ own _ suit.

 

Later, he told himself firmly, turning his attention back to Bucky.

 

“It’s when I’m alone that it gets bad, I guess,” Bucky admitted, and his hand fell away from his shoulder. “It feels more like how it felt back then. I was always on my own, aside from the few people I needed to be around to get a mission accomplished. And that was pretty far from any kind of friendship. I’d be hard pressed to even call it a work relationship. It was mostly open hostilities from every angle.”

 

To Peter’s surprise, Bucky was starting to grin.

 

“God, I was a little shit.”

 

“What?” Peter laughed, startled, but he was nearly drowned out by Steve’s chortling as he tossed his head back.

 

“It took them a long time to get me how they wanted me,” Bucky admitted, and he finally sat up. Despite all Steve’s smoothing and preening, his hair was somehow even messier than normal. “I was a  _ problem case _ . It took decades, kid, you hear me? They had to keep putting me on ice because I wouldn’t quit fucking shit up.”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Peter couldn’t get the grin off his own face, now.

 

“Nah,” Bucky looked downright proud of himself. “I wasn’t about to let  _ Nazis _ get an American soldier to do their dirty work for them. Not without one hell of a fight, anyway.”

 

“So you just… what? Came out of cryo, guns blazing?” Peter leaned forward, melancholy fading away in the face of a potential story. He’d never been much of a history guy, but this was  _ different _ .

 

“They absolutely did not trust me with guns until I’d been fully reconditioned,” Bucky informed him. “They learned that lesson  _ real _ quick.”

 

Peter snickered. “I guess they would have had to,” He agreed. “So what did you do?”

 

“I don’t know if it’s ever come up,” Bucky said, his voice flat and dry in that way it got when he was being really sarcastic. “But I’m pretty skilled at hand to hand.”

 

“So you just woke up and started throwing punches,” Peter could hardly contain his glee at the mental image. 

 

“Unfortunately, they started strapping me down,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “They learned, one step at a time. Every time they figured out how to stop me from doing one thing, I’d come up with something else. It didn’t have to be smart, or even effective, really. It just had to show them that I wasn’t giving up.”

 

Peter, despite himself, was somewhat inspired.

 

“I never thought I’d be able to sit around and joke about it, that’s for sure,” Bucky admitted with another one of those tired grins, but there was a little light back in his eyes, now. “Just goes to show you, I guess. All things pass.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed. “All things pass.”

 

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out thoughtlessly, checking the text.

 

**DS: I think it’s time for us to really talk about this, Peter.**

 

\---

 

Dmitri Smerdyakov was at home.

 

He plucked idly at one edge of his mask, scrolling through the hundreds of texts he’d exchanged with Peter. His Peter.

 

**PP: And its like, I know that it was just high school you know**

**PP: But that doesnt make it any less stressful**

**PP: People like to say ‘oh its the best years of your life!!’**

**PP: It freaking better not be!!**

**PP: You know?**

**DS: Anyone who says that isn’t worth your time, Peter. They peaked in high school and they’ll never amount to anything more than that time they were the captain of the football team twenty-five years ago. You don’t have to worry. You’re going to be so much more than that.**

**PP: Haha thanks**

 

He was so young, the Chameleon thought fondly. He’d seen so little of the world. He hadn’t yet realized what it really was.

 

**PP: And its not like I ever asked for it**

**PP: I didnt grow up like “i really want to fight a man with way too many mechanical arms in my free time!”**

**PP: Well**

**PP: I guess I did kind of idolize iron man**

**PP: But I mean who didn’t?**

**PP: The first big name superhero of the modern era!**

**PP: It was kind of a big deal you know**

**PP: I actually saw him in action one time it was CRAZY**

**PP: I was just a little kid but he saved my life and it was AWESOME**

**PP: Wait Ive already told you about that havent I**

**DS: Yes, Peter, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.**

**PP: Whoops sorry!**

**PP: Dont want to bore you haha**

**DS: You never bore me, Peter.**

 

He had so much  _ energy _ , Dmitri thought with no small amount of envy. He never seemed to quit.

 

**PP: I miss them**

**PP: Every day**

**PP: Its like this ache that just never goes away**

**PP: It doesnt matter how much I try to block it out its just always there**

**PP: Even when Im dreaming**

**PP: I dream about them all the time**

**PP: Uncle Ben and Aunt May and Gwen**

**PP: I know its dumb because Ive got all the Avengers or whatever but its not the same you know**

**PP: I just feel like Im barely keeping my head above water but**

**PP: Im weighed down by all this crap I cant talk about**

**PP: And sometimes I think maybe I should just let some of it go**

**PP: Let it slip**

**PP: Tell them something**

**PP: But they might figure out who I am**

**PP: And if they do that then Ill get sent away and I just**

**PP: Cant leave NY**

**PP: Everything Ive ever had is here I cant just leave it behind**

**PP: I just wish**

**PP: Its so dumb but I just wish I could go back and fix everything**

**PP: I would do anything you know**

**DS: I understand completely, Peter. It’s hard to deal with loss, and even harder when you’re on your own. You’re right: the Avengers have been kind to you, but you can’t afford to jeopardize that. If they figure out the truth, I can’t imagine that things would ever go back to being the same for you. You’re right. You’d be sent away, and you wouldn’t be able to come back. But it’s not their decision to make. You’re sixteen, now, Peter, and you’ve grown up so much since you started out as Spider-Man. Y (1 of 2)**

**DS: ou know what you’re doing. And they ought to trust you, but they never would. They would decide that you were just some teenager and that they knew what was best.**

**PP: Im glad you dont see it that way**

**PP: Thanks for trusting me**

**DS: No, Peter, thank you for trusting me.**

 

He scrolled down to the most recent texts, where his latest was still waiting for a reply.

 

**DS:Are you doing alright, Peter?**

**PP: I dont know**

**DS: Tell me what’s wrong. What are you thinking about?**

**PP: I dont know**

**PP: I guess**

**PP: Just about how you killed Montford**

**PP: I feel like we could have found another way**

**DS: Maybe you’re right. What other way?**

**PP: I dont know**

**DS: I don’t know either, Peter. I honestly don’t think that there was any other way that it could have ended. He never would have faced a jury. He never would have been convicted. This is just the way the world works, Peter, as much as I hate it. No one like that this is the way it is, but if we want to make change, we have to face the facts. We must do what we have to do, whatever that means. And sometimes it means killing someone. Do you understand that, Peter?**

**PP: I guess**

**PP: I need to go**

**DS: I think it’s time for us to really talk about this, Peter.**

 

Peter was awake, despite the late hour, Dmitri knew: he’d seen the message. He was taking longer to respond than usual, but that hadn’t been uncommon, in the past few weeks. Peter was upset. It was natural, he supposed, for someone of his moral standing to balk at this kind of business, but Dmitri was confident that with just a little further grooming, with just a few more small pushes at the right time, he would come around. He was already coming around, if the chimes from his phone were to be believed.

 

**PP: Maybe youre right**

 

Dmitri’s eyes softened as he looked at the words. He was such a smart boy, he thought, fingers tapping against the side of the phone as he watched the icon as the bottom of the page that indicated that Peter was still typing. Such a smart boy, but still just a boy. He had so much learning to do. So much to be taught. Dmitri would be honored to be his teacher. 

 

**PP: I dont know about everything**

**PP: I dont know about a lot of things I mean**

**PP: But**

**PP: I dont want to live like this anymore**

**PP: I do know that**

**PP: Im scared all the time and I dont want to be**

**PP: Something could happen to ANYBODY**

**PP: The Avengers are so nice**

**PP: But if something happens I cant help them**

**PP: I just**

**PP: Dont know how**

**PP: Can you really teach me?**

**PP: Do you really know how to keep them safe?**

**PP: So Ill never lose them?**

 

Poor Peter, Dmitri sighed. He’d faced so much loss in such a short time. It was amazing, he mused. It was incredible that he’d managed to stay so  _ good _ in the face of so much tragedy.

 

**DS: Of course I can, Peter. I have experience, trust me. I know what I’m doing and I want for you to know, too. I’m more than willing to train you so that someday you’ll know everything you need to protect your loved ones. Whatever it takes, Peter, I’ll do it for you. Anything I can do.**

**PP: Ok**

**PP: Yeah**

**PP: On one condition**

**DS: What is it, Peter?**

**PP: No more killing**

**DS: Peter, we’ve talked about this. It’s just unavoidable sometimes. That’s the first lesson I’ve been trying to teach you. Surely you’re beginning to learn that? I thought that Montford would be the perfect example for you, and I don’t understand why it is that you’re struggling so desperately against that realization. I know you better than that, Peter, I know that you understand the necessity. So why won’t you just accept it?**

**PP: Nobody deserves to be killed**

**DS: Are you sure that’s true, Peter? What about your Uncle? He didn’t deserve to be killed. If you had taken down that robber before he’d reached him, then he wouldn’t be dead now. And Octavius. Surely he deserved to die for what he did to Gwen. She didn’t deserve to die, but surely the man who took her life does.**

**PP: I dont think so**

**DS: I think you do, Peter. You know it’s true. It’s time for you to realize that.**

**PP: Nobody deserves to be killed**

**DS: It’s alright, Peter. You have time. But someday that time will run out and you’ll have a choice to make. You’ll have to choose between upholding your morals and letting more people die, or laying aside your pride in order to do what’s right. In order to do what you need to do.**

 

There was a long period of time where Peter didn’t respond. It was understandable, the Chameleon told himself. He was giving Peter a lot to chew on. He might not really be ready for this, yet, but it was time to strike anyway. He may never find the perfect time, so he had to take the opportunity he could see.

 

Peter was balancing so close to the right places. He longed for companionship, but was afraid to get close to anyone. He wanted to grow as a hero, but he didn’t know how. He was afraid of Dmitri, but he still found himself unable to mistrust him.

 

**PP: Ok**

**PP: But I**

**PP: I just need time ok**

**PP: Im not ready**

 

Oh, sweet Peter. He tried so hard. Someday that will would crack, though, and the true realization of his strength would be incredible to behold. But for now, it was so difficult to resist what he wanted. He would always have a soft spot for the young hero, he suspected.

 

**DS: Alright, Peter. We’ll go slowly. Start somewhere else. I’d like you to meet me in three days, at ten o’clock in the evening. Do you think that you’ll be able to leave the tower without the Avengers seeing? You don’t want them asking questions. Then they’ll insist on stopping you and we’ll never be able to see each other.**

**PP: Yeah, probably. They don’t mind me leaving the tower so much as long as I call them if I need them, so I don’t think they’d notice anything weird if I said I was going for a patrol.**

**DS: Alright. That will be fine. I’d like you to meet me at the same place we last saw each other. I’ll teach you to cover your tracks. Do you remember how to get there?**

**PP: I remember**

**DS: Good. Then I’ll let you rest, Peter. I’m very much looking forward to seeing you again.**

**PP: Yeah you too**

**PP: See you then**

 

It wasn’t going to be easy, waiting three days. It was bad enough when they had no plans to see each other, and he just had to lurk, waiting for Peter to answer his texts, waiting for him to wander in sight of the Avengers Tower windows, waiting for a chance to stumble upon him in disguise. It was worse when he knew that his time was coming. The time to inhabit the same space as Peter, to speak directly to him, to hear the things he had to say spoken aloud with all the eagerness and enthusiasm he had never failed to provide.

 

But Dmitri had more to do than just wait for Peter, he thought regretfully. He had far too much to do to dedicate all the time he wanted to the young man. But soon, he thought eagerly, glancing into the mirror. His pale eyes stared back at him from behind the white, blank mask. Soon Peter would be by his side, and he wouldn’t have to wait anymore. Soon he would have Peter with him wherever he went. Soon he would  _ own _ him, and Peter would follow him to the ends of the earth with that never-failing loyalty of his.

 

The Chameleon jammed a few more buttons on his phone, hands shaking in his eagerness. He forced himself to take a deep breath, calming himself as he lifted the phone to his ear. Humming with satisfaction, he lowered his voice slightly into the familiar tones of Noah Montford.

 

“Dr. Warren,” He greeted as someone picked up on the other end of the call. “Is everyone ready?”

 

\---

 

Peter left the tower.

 

He didn’t see anyone on his way out, which was probably for the best: he might lose his nerve if he had to look them in the eyes. They were always so nice to him. If he had to face that, tonight, he would be tempted to just stay there, to just linger in the warm understanding they would probably afford him until he died. 

 

But he had an appointment, and he didn’t intend to be late.

 

His anxiety was cresting waves, high overhead as the storm inside him raged, winds pushing walls of water higher. Stay calm, he told himself, trying to convince himself that the rowboat of his courage would hold up.  _ It would hold up. _

 

It was dark, and the streetlights down below, bright as they were, didn’t seem to penetrate. Peter was afraid. He didn’t want to know what it would mean to accept the Chameleon’s offer. He didn’t know what he would have to do to finally get to a place where he felt safe loving again. He didn’t want to know what the Chameleon wanted from him or what he would make him do.

 

Early in his therapy, Bruce had told him something that he remembered, now.

 

_ “You won’t win every time,” Bruce said, watching Peter where he was slumped miserably on the armchair across from Bruce’s. “Everything feels like a battle, and sometimes you’ll lose. Sometimes it’ll feel like the war will go on forever, and all you’ve got under your belt are losses. But someday the war will end, and as long as it does, you’ve won.” _

 

_ “I guess,” Peter had agreed faintly. “But it would be nice if I wasn’t facing an army all on my own.” _

 

_ “Spidey,” Bruce’s voice was soft. “Do you really think you’re alone?” Peter had glanced up at him, an ache burning in his throat and behind his eyes. “You’ve got the entire might of the greatest army on Earth behind you. The Avengers are all here with you. And don’t think I’m just talking about fighting prowess, here— we all understand what you’re going through, and we’re here to support you. You can come to any of us, at any time, and we’ll help you. You know that, right? We’ll always be here to help you.” _

 

_ “Yeah,” Peter had mumbled. The words had felt meaningless. A nice metaphor, he supposed, but ultimately it would never come to much. The Avengers didn’t know the truth; they could never really understand. _

 

A nice metaphor, Peter thought again, swallowing hard as he swung through the city. He was painfully aware of the tracker, but at this point Tony was past checking in with him when he left, so his comm remained silent. It was prime patrolling hours, Peter thought as he glanced down towards the city below. Dmitri must have chosen the time specifically for that reason. No one would have thought twice about him going out even if they’d noticed him.

 

Peter swung towards Little Neck.

 

The shortness of his breath was something to worry about, Peter realized distantly. Not quite a panic attack, but threatening to become one. Dark storm clouds, Peter thought. Black as night against the sky. He looked up, then, as if they would be hovering above them, but the night was unusually clear. He could even see a couple of stars.

 

He had to win this battle, Peter thought, remembering Bruce’s words again. This wasn’t a battle he could afford to lose. If he gave up, if he went back, then he would never work up the courage to get this done. And although the Avengers would accept him with open arms, he knew they would, he couldn’t live like that. He needed this.

 

He thought of Noah Montford, thought of how recently he’d seen him dead in his office. He hadn’t heard any news about his body being found, so he wasn’t even sure it had been published: although, maybe it was just because JARVIS filtered it out. He’d been filtering Peter’s news intake in the past few months, he acknowledged with a grimace. The Daily Bugle articles he’d noticed while he was out were probably the reason.

 

Peter could see the bay as he swung up over the tops of the nearby buildings.

 

The Chameleon was out there, he realized with a shiver. Dmitri was very nearby. Maybe he even had eyes on Peter right now.

 

He was suddenly wondering how often he’d seen Dmitri without ever knowing it. How long had he been watching him? It was a chilling thought.

 

Peter landed on the roof of the warehouse.

 

He felt like he’d landed in a mass of his own web fluid: it was like his feet were stuck to the loose gravel on the roof. His legs were so stiff he was sure that he wouldn’t be able to bend them. His whole body was a knot of tension, and his stomach churned.

 

It was happening so fast, he thought with rising panic. It was moving too fast. No matter how he tried to busy himself with thoughts, no matter how much time he tried to preserve by ignoring the ever-ticking flow, he was here, and the Chameleon was inside.

 

Peter was three minutes late already. 

 

He took a step, and his traitorous body moved without flaw. A perfectly even step, despite the frothing fear sloshing up into his shoulders.

 

He wished that he couldn’t move. He would rather stay on that roof forever than face Dmitri again.

 

He took another step and he hated himself for it, choking on terror as his hand closed on the door knob of the roof access.

 

It was still broken, he noticed in a muted kind of way as he pulled the door open. He was suddenly overcome by the urge to flee, to slam the door shut and swing back to Avenger’s Tower as fast as he could, but he stepped inside.

 

The lights were on. Peter shut the door.

 

“Peter,”

 

He could hear his name, despite the fact that Dmitri didn’t raise his voice to say it. It was soft, practically a whisper, but it reached his ears despite every fiber of his being pleading for it not to.

 

He stepped forward, footsteps echoing on the metal catwalk as he slowly crossed towards the middle. The middle door, the one that had previously hidden Montford, was closed again. The smell of antiseptic seeped out from under the door and he nearly gagged.

 

He couldn’t hear anything, now, but he could feel eyes on him. He could even feel where they were. He didn’t want to look. Once he looked, there was no going back. Dmitri would reel him in, bringing to fruition his months of hard work befriending Peter.

 

He’d thought they were friends, he acknowledged numbly. He’d been so stupid. He’d been so  _ stupid _ to think that.

 

He wanted to cry, and that was the worst part. He’d trusted Dmitri, he’d told him  _ everything _ . He couldn’t count the number of times Dmitri had been a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, a friendly face who already knew all his secrets anyway, so it was okay to tell him  _ just one more _ .

 

The betrayal stung deeper than anything.

 

Peter looked down to the open floor below. The crates were gone, and in the empty space that provided, Dmitri stood alone.

 

He wore a white mask, Peter saw, shivering violently. No one else’s face, this time, just that white mask. He couldn’t decide if it was better or worse than seeing someone he thought he recognized.

 

“Peter,” Dmitri said again as they locked eyes. There was a softness there that he wished he’d never seen. It made his skin crawl. “I’m so happy to see you. How are you feeling? I know you’ve had a hard couple of days.”

 

“I don’t know,” Peter said truthfully. There were too many words, too many feelings, there was no way to untangle them all into an answer for Dmitri. “I—” He couldn’t think of what to say. He was staring into that white mask and he was petrified. 

 

This was the true puppetmaster, Peter finally acknowledged. Maybe this was why he had felt no closure with the death of Montford. This man was the real source of all this city’s troubles.

 

The Chameleon was still watching Peter with an expression that could only have been described as affection. Peter hated that there seemed to be no hint of malice or sadism in it. It was just a gentle kind of love, like what he would see on Natasha’s face when she thought he wasn’t looking. Like Clint had given him, back at the funeral. An expression he’d seen on all the Avenger’s faces, he realized suddenly, at one time or another.

 

“It’s alright, Peter,” Dmitri spoke, physically jostling Peter with just the sound. “You don’t have to say anything. Come down here, would you?”

 

Peter descended the steps, feet heavy with the automatic movement. The feeling of dread was heavy in his stomach.

 

“There you are,” The teasing murmur, a twitch of a smile, crinkling eyes. It made Peter feel sick. “Are you ready to begin?”

 

“I want—” Peter could barely manage the words, but he managed. That was one battle won, he supposed, even if it was almost too tiny to count. “I want to ask you something, first.”

 

“Anything, Peter,” The Chameleon agreed seriously, those pale eyes digging into him like daggers. No— like fire ants. Crawling and biting and itching. “You can ask me anything you like.”

 

“Were you really working with Montford?” Peter asked hesitantly. “Before.”

 

“I was,” The Chameleon agreed. “We all do what we must, Peter. That’s what you’re here to learn, remember?”

 

“Right.” Peter nodded slowly, fingers twisting together. “But… why did you change your mind? Why did you decide to…” He couldn’t manage any more after that, but Dmitri clearly understood.

 

“He was a small man,” Dmitri answered, almost disdainfully. “With small plans. He seemed promising, at first— he was quite gifted with his mutant ability. But you know that.” Peter nodded again. “But he just wanted so little. He wasn’t willing to work for his vision: he would rather hire me, hire Octavius, let us do his dirty work. It was always money, with him.” He stepped close, and Peter’s knees nearly buckled as Dmitri reached out, gripping Peter’s face between his hands, staring him in the eye as if he could actually see them.

 

“But you, Peter,” His voice was reverent, almost as if he were praying. “You’re more. You’ve always been so much  _ more _ . I’ve never seen anyone like you, and I couldn’t help myself. I would have given the world just to meet you, and now look where we are.”

 

Peter didn’t move. He was frozen. “How did you find me? How did you find out who I was? No one else ever— not even Natasha—” 

 

“You slipped up,” The Chameleon admitted. “I was still working for Montford at the time.” His thumbs stroked idly against Peter’s face and he flinched so violently that Dmitri finally released him, an apologetic smile on his face. “I had been instructed to discover your identity, so I set a trap for you. Imagine my disappointment when it took you so long to discover it, and on top of that, it wasn’t even  _ you _ .”

 

“What?” Peter swallowed, raking his mind. What was he talking about? 

 

“The drive,” The Chameleon reminded him. “In the car at the impound lot. You can’t tell me that you really think we would leave such valuable evidence lying around for so long?”

 

It had been there for months, Peter realized. That car had sat in the lot longer than it should have, and no one had ever stolen in to take back the drive. He’d never even thought about it.

 

“Gwen,” Peter said before the thought had even fully formed. “It was Gwen who went and got it.”

 

“That’s right,” The Chameleon agreed sympathetically. “That was when I found  _ her _ . It was so simple, then, to find you. You were never very careful, Peter: it’s a miracle that no one else ever discovered your connection to her.”

 

Peter sucked in a breath, an aborted sob. Sharp waves of guilt crashed onto his shoulders and he would have crumbled to his knees if the Chameleon hadn’t stepped forward just in time to brace him, gripping him by the arms.

 

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” He said, and there was real pain in his voice. “I never would have let him do that to the girl you loved if I had known. If I could have stopped him in time, I would have saved her for you.”

 

“I— I didn’t realize— I blamed  _ Octavius—  _ I didn't think—” Peter could barely breathe. He was verging on a panic attack again, but he couldn’t afford it. He couldn’t break down that way in front of Dmitri. He gripped the Chameleon’s shoulders, trying to ground himself, trying to claw his way back out of the raging ocean with only the capricious, slippery sand as a handhold.

 

“It’s not your fault, shh,” Dmitri’s voice was a whisper in his ear, soothing and reassuring. “Shh, Peter. You didn’t know.” Before Peter had a chance to stop him, Dmitri was pulling him into a tight hug. “This is what I’ll teach you, Peter. You’ll never have to face that again.”

 

“You told them who she was,” Peter was crying, he realized, and he desperately wished that he wasn’t alone with Dmitri. “And Montford set Octavius on her. She died because of that.”

 

“Yes,” The Chameleon agreed, one of his hands rubbing up and down Peter’s back. It was identical to how Aunt May would do it, he thought as bile rose into his throat. Was it coincidence? How could he have known what that felt like? “I’m so sorry, Peter. I’ll do whatever I can to make it up to you.”

 

Peter shook his head, giving in and burying his face into Dmitri’s shoulder. He could feel those arms tighten around him in response, and Dmitri’s head leaned against his.

 

“I know,” He told him, and his tone told him that he spoke from experience. “I know nothing will ever bring her back. Nothing will ever  _ really _ make up for her loss. But I’ll never stop trying, Peter.”

 

“I— I—” 

 

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I promise.”

 

“You already killed Montford,” Peter’s voice sounded like the chill of the grave. “I don’t know what else you want to do, but I never asked for that.”

 

“I know,” Dmitri agreed. “I know you didn’t want him to die. But you have to understand, Peter, that I did it for you. I did what you couldn’t do. I’ll always be here to do the hard things for you, if you need me to.”

 

Peter shifted back, and Dmitri let him go. “I don’t need you to,” Peter told him, swallowing back the waves of emotion. The pride in Dmitri’s eyes was so bright. “I don't want that.” And just like that, it was gone, disappointment rising in its place.

 

“I thought we agreed, Peter,” He said, voice soft. “I thought you understood.”

 

Peter shook his head.

 

“Peter,” The Chameleon sighed. “I know it’s hard for you. I understand. It’s always going to be hard, at first. But once you get past that roadblock, I promise that it will get easier. We just have to get you past that.”

 

“I can’t. I won’t.”

 

“Peter,” His voice was a little sharper, but it was closer to annoyance than anything else. “Don’t you want to learn? Why did you come here? To turn me down?”

 

“No, not just that,” Peter’s head tipped to the side as he tried to summon up his cocky Spider-Man persona. It fell somewhat flat. His heart wasn’t in it. “I needed a confession on tape, and I didn’t want to run into the whole coercion thing again.”

 

“What?” The Chameleon stepped back, openly shocked. “Peter— what are you talking about?”

 

“Tony made me a new suit,” Peter tapped at one of his lenses. “I finally got up the nerve to ask him about all the tech he jammed into it and would you believe it? It records the things I see. How nuts is that? The technology that guy comes up with is so freaking cool.” He swallowed again, trying to jam his grief back down into his stomach. He couldn’t deal with that, now. He had more going on.

 

“Tony,” Dmitri spat. “He just wants to check up on you. He wants to watch you, to control you, to make sure you live up to his ideals as his _ prot _ _ é _ _ g _ _ é _ _. _ ”

 

“Weird,” Peter hummed. “I kind of thought that that was what you were doing.”

 

The Chameleon bristled with outrage. “I’ve done nothing but try to help you!” He spat. “What has Tony Stark done for you? Built you a new suit? That’s nothing. He still left you feeling alone. He still let you drift far enough to let you come here alone.” His face darkened. “I never wanted to do this, Peter, but I suspected that you might prove difficult.” There was the sound of a door opening, up above at the offices. Peter’s blood ran cold. He  _ hadn’t checked  _ to make sure that they were alone. “I think all you really need is some time away from those  _ Avengers _ . They’ve been such a poor influence on you. But don’t worry, my dear Peter. I’m still here for you. And I’ll never let you wander so far away from  _ me _ .”

 

Peter whirled at the sound of footsteps on the metal catwalk up above. Captain America, Peter saw, heart racing. Iron Man. Hawkeye. The Black Widow.

 

They were staring at him with unfeeling expressions.

 

“Dr. Warren and Dr. Octavius never did manage to perfect them,” The Chameleon admitted with some regret. “They don’t manage independent thought well. But they manage to follow orders well enough.” He sighed. “Restrain Spider-Man,” He called up to the clones. “Do your best not to hurt him more than you have to.” His attention turned back to Peter, voice lowering. “Try not to struggle too much,” he advised Peter. “I’d love it if we managed to get you home without hurting you at all.”

 

“Not likely,” Peter was shaking, still, but he managed to sound mostly confident as he turned to look at Dmitri. His chin lifted and his hands fisted at his side. “ _ Now! _ ”

 

The windows blew out, then, and the sound of repulsor fire roared over the tinkling of glass as it showered down to the floor.

 

“Tony, Natasha,” Steve’s voice came over the comms. “Take care of your clones. Keep them away from Spidey. Clint, you okay for hand to hand?”

 

“Okay as I ever am,” Clint agreed. “Getting a little too old for this, though, if you ask me.”

 

“Spidey,” Steve was breaking down the locked front door. “The Chameleon is yours.”

 

“Thanks, guys,” Peter said, voice wet with gratitude as his attention turned back to the shell-shocked villain in front of him.

 

“I told you not to let them see you leave,” The Chameleon sputtered, eyes flicking around the warehouse. Tony was already on his clone, the force of impact knocking both of them through the wall and out into the street. The door was splintering even as Captain America leapt down from the catwalk, Black Widow and Hawkeye close on his heels down the stairs.

 

“I guess you’re not the only liar around here,” Peter said with a shrug, feeling a small, small portion of his confidence returning as the door crashed open. Steve was past him in a flash, and an arrow zipped by Peter’s ear, close enough that he would have flinched if the quiet of his spidey-sense hadn’t assured him that he would be fine. “I fell for a lot of what you said, Dmitri, but I guess I did learn one thing from all this.” He beamed with pride under his mask. “I learned who I can really trust.”

 

“I won’t give up on you, Peter,” Dmitri snarled, but he was taking a step back. “I’m not giving up. I told you that I’d spend the rest of my life on you and I meant it.” His eyes flickered up and Peter’s spidey sense screamed a warning. “Take him,” He said firmly, and Peter spun just in time to block a punch from—

 

Himself.

 

God, there was a clone of him, too, Peter thought with horror, staring into the glassy eyes of the Spider-Man suit in front of him. It was like every one of his fears had rolled themselves up inside his old mask and come to life.

 

Peter ducked to dodge another punch, throwing one of his own, but Spider-Man leapt over his head, spinning to knock Peter to the side with a well placed kick. Peter was sent flying, but his arm flung out and a web sprung forth, catching on the outstretched foot. He yanked hard and heard a cry from his own voice as he flung Spider-Man into the wall.

 

Dmitri was on him, then, and Peter caught sight of a flash of metal before he managed to dodge, a swath of web clogging the syringe he wielded, sticking it firmly to the hand Dmitri was gripping it with.

 

“You ought to learn some new tricks,” Peter advised him. “I’d offer to teach you, but I don’t like the commute to Ravencroft.”

 

He missed whatever retort Dmitri had planned on making because Spider-Man was back, then, having taken advantage of the time he spent on his quip to make up the distance between them. 

 

“Bucky!” Peter cried. “I could use a little help, here!”

 

Peter dodged a flurry of punches that he was certain would have been difficult for the normal eye to catch. “Don’t act like I’m the one slacking off,” He heard Bucky growling over the comm. “ _ You’re _ the one who took forever to call.”

 

“You’re the ace up my sleeve, man,” Peter complained. “I had to save you for when I needed you. And now I need you!” He grunted as his distraction allowed Spider-Man to land a punch on his face and he staggered back again, tumbling out of the way as the clone leapt forward.

 

Then Bucky was there, Peter thought with relief, metal arm flashing as he clocked Spider-Man with a crunching sound that made Peter wince.

 

Peter didn’t waste any more time,  leaping forward to attack. A web shot towards Peter’s face but he dipped to the side, slinging one of his own and managing to grab one of his legs again, yanking hard and sending him sprawling to the ground.

 

Bucky was quick to jump forward again, but Spider-Man was up in a flash and managed to land a blow that sent Bucky halfway across the warehouse. Peter sucked in a sharp breath, but he could see Bucky stumbling to his feet already, so he turned back to Spider-Man, preparing to step forward.

 

He nearly tripped, and when he glance down, he was horrified to discover that his feet had been webbed to the ground. Why hadn’t he noticed that? He’d been distracted by Bucky, he realized, and Spider-Man had taken his chance.

 

Spider-Man threw another punch, and Peter ducked to avoid it, but he had to block the kick that came from the other side. Thank goodness for Natasha, he thought reverently, or he would probably have taken that hit.

 

There were explosions from outside, Peter heard, and had to wince. Obviously it wouldn’t be clean, fighting an evil Iron Man clone, but Peter hoped that Tony would contain the damage as much as possible.

 

Peter threw a fist forward, hoping to catch Spidey before he managed to block, but the clone just danced out of the way, able to retreat as far as he liked. Peter glowered, dropping into a squat to avoid the webs shot towards his head again. Time to take a leaf out of Deadpool’s book, he decided, and surged back to his feet, wrenching his feet one at a time straight out of his boots.

 

“Up to the knee,” Peter scolded the clone, throwing himself forward into a full-body tackle.

 

“Spidey, Romanoff’s in hot water,” Bucky’s voice came over the comm. “You good?”

 

“Go!” Peter agreed, slamming his fist against his clone’s face. It made him sick to think what it might look like under that mask. This whole fight was… honestly pretty traumatizing stuff. Good thing his bar for traumatizing experiences was already so high, or he might have been in trouble, here.

 

He took a glancing punch to the jaw, but he was  _ pretty _ sure it didn’t break.

 

“We don’t have to fight,” Peter grunted as he grappled with the clone, grabbing at his fists and sticking to them, but he received no response. No independent thought, Peter reminded himself, at least according to the Chameleon. Somehow that didn’t make him feel much better about beating the pulp out of his clone. It certainly didn’t make him feel better about the pulp getting beaten out of him in return.

 

He didn’t release his grip on those fists, though, and his sticky grip made it nearly impossible for his clone to break free. It didn’t, unfortunately, keep him from pushing back to his feet and swinging Peter into a wall. Peter grunted, sticking his side to the wooden surface, but the wood was weak, or else Spider-Man was strong, because rather than gluing him in place, a piece of the wall just came with him. Great. Awesome. That was  _ exactly _ the intended effect, Peter thought sarcastically, wishing that Spider-Man had the brain capacity to appreciate the joke if he had made it aloud.

 

He stuck himself to the floor, next, and the cement was significantly stronger. Unfortunately, that meant that it freaking  _ hurt _ when Spider-Man yanked on his arms again.

 

“How’s it going over there, Spidey?” Clint chose that moment to check in, despite the fact that, from the sound of it, he was still fighting with his own clone. “You doing okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” Peter groaned, trying to pull his clone forward, but it seemed like he had copied Peter’s idea and had stuck himself to the floor. This was basically a stalemate, Peter thought with frustration. What were they supposed to do now? “You?”

 

“Peachy,” Clint agreed. “Speaking of, have you tried those preserves I brought to the tower the other day? They’re homemade.” Peter had to bark out a laugh at that, surprised. Seriously? Was this the time? He laughed again as he realized that this is probably what the Avengers were like on missions all the time.

 

“Chatter,” Steve said sternly, apparently agreeing with Peter’s thought. That didn’t stop Peter from giggling over it.

 

Alright, Peter decided, buckling back in. He’d broken cement before and he was sure that he’d do it again. The trick would be getting Spider-Man to break before  _ he  _ did.

 

God, this was the weirdest fight he’d ever been in, he thought, longing for the days when giant bees were the biggest of his worries.

 

He heard crunching concrete as he pulled harder, but with the cacophony of fighting sounds around them, he couldn’t be sure if it was coming from underneath himself or the clone. He could  _ definitely _ hear the twin cries of pain from both of them as they nearly ripped each other’s dang arms off. As cool as it would be to get metal arms like Bucky, he didn’t want to steal his aesthetic, so he pulled his arms close to his body, leaning Spider-Man forward, then abruptly released his grip on the floor, throwing all his might into knocking Spider-Man backwards.

 

They both tumbled to the ground, and for a few moments, neither of them moved.

 

Another explosion rocked the building and Peter pushed himself back to his feet. His body ached, but it wasn’t the worst he’d been hurt. He was tired, but he’d felt weariness heavier than this. He could feel grief and fear and anger all warring inside him, but it was nothing compared to what he’d already been through.

 

Somehow it seemed like, despite everything, he was ready for this. He could handle it. He would win the war.

 

Spider-Man stood, and Peter could smell blood and electricity. There were growing abrasions in the spandex of his foe and he could see a gleam of metal underneath the skin.

 

Octavius was no geneticist, Peter thought. And if Warren had needed his help, it was to make something that wasn’t human.

 

Peter couldn’t say that it was entirely unexpected, but he didn’t think he’d ever get over the surprise of learning what new lows a villain would sink to. 

 

“Spider-Man,” Peter tried one more time. There was no answer. “If you stop, then we can both…” What? Continue leading the life they’d led? How long had this clone even been alive? Did he even  _ count _ as living?

 

Not for Peter to decide, he resolved.

 

Spider-Man didn’t wait any longer. He sprung forward, launching through the air in order to grab for Peter, hands closing on his neck. Peter sucked in a sharp breath right before Spider-Man started to squeeze, and his hands flew up to pry at the fingers clutching at his throat. Spider-Man was right in his face, now, so close that Peter could hear the whir of mechanics under his skin. What  _ was _ he? He had Peter’s abilities, he had his DNA, but there seemed to be very little else that was human about him.

 

Now wasn’t the time to worry about it. He could hear a body hit the ground and when he cast his eyes to the side to check on his team, he couldn’t tell for a moment whether it was Natasha or her clone who was bleeding on the ground, but then he saw Bucky step forward and grip her arm, looking relieved. That was all the time he had to spare on his friends, though, because he was running out of air.

 

Peter switched his grip and grabbed at Spider-Man’s wrists, crushing his web-shooters.

 

Spider-Man didn’t so much as flinch, instead bearing down harder on Peter, forcing him to scramble back to his fingers, prying them up one at a time. He could hear snapping, but he elected to ignore it. The whimpers of pain from the clone’s throat were a little harder.

 

An arrow buried itself suddenly into the clone’s shoulder, and Spider-Man released him abruptly, staggering back with a strangled scream. Peter buckled, gasping for breath as he dropped to his knees. All at once, Steve was there, throwing that beautiful, incredible, iconic shield of his straight into Spider-Man’s chest. The clone flew back, hit the wall, and slumped to the ground as the shield returned to its owner.

 

He was still.

 

It felt wrong, somehow, that he hadn’t been the one to make the final blow, Peter thought, clutching at his throat and wheezing. But then, life was like that, sometimes. Not everything ended in a poetic way.

 

Peter looked around. Natasha and Bucky were coming towards him, and Clint was lowering his bow from where he stood on the catwalk. His clone lie below on the ground, and Peter decided not to look too closely.

 

Outside there was the sound of further repulsor fire, but for the moment, everyone seemed to be focused on Peter. Steve held out a hand to him, relief in his eyes.

 

“That was a close one,” Steve murmured, gripping Peter’s hand tightly as he took it, pulling Peter to his feet. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner.”

 

“No,” Peter shook his head. His voice was a little rough, even through the modulator. “You were right on time.”

 

He hesitated only a moment before pushing forward and hugging Steve tightly, and it didn’t surprise him at all when Steve squeezed him back. 

 

“Thanks for coming.”

 

“We’ll always be here for you, Spidey,” Steve promised, and despite the echo of the Chameleon’s words, it was a comfort.

 

Peter jerked back suddenly, gasping. Where was the Chameleon?

 

“Where did Dmitri go?” Peter asked, head whipping around, counting bodies. No extras, he thought with frustration. “Did anyone see where the Chameleon went?” A quiet chorus of negative answers was overshadowed by the sound of crashing metal outside, and Tony skidded through the door a moment later on only two working repulsors.

 

“Hey, thanks for the help, guys, glad you had a chance to catch your breath,” Tony deadpanned from inside his suit. Peter focused on him, desperate hope in his chest.

 

“Did you see the Chameleon leave?” He asked, practically begged, and Tony shifted back a little, clearly surprised by the question.

 

“He got away?” Tony demanded. “JARVIS, did you catch anything I didn’t see?” Peter couldn’t hear the response, but Tony’s hiss told him all Peter needed to know. “Keep looking,” Tony instructed his AI as Peter’s shoulders slumped. “Every camera we have access to, keep an eye out for suspicious activity.”

 

He got away, Peter echoed silently, feeling a crumbling feeling in his stomach. He was gone. They wouldn’t catch up to him until the Chameleon was ready, Peter felt sure, and they might never catch him.

 

“ _ We’re no strangers to love,” _ Peter’s phone sang. “ _ You know the rules… and so do I! _ ”

 

Peter fumbled the device from his belt as Natasha and Clint turned disbelieving looks towards him. He accepted the call and lifted it to his ear, blinking.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, Spidey!” Deadpool chirped from the other end. “Just calling to check in. How’s it going?”

 

“Uh— um. I’m not sure this is a good time, Deadpool,” Peter told him, catching Natasha pressing her palm to her eyes out of his peripheral vision. Steve was pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“Are you sure? ‘Cause I caught wind you were having a party tonight and you didn’t invite little ol’ me,” Deadpool pouted over the phone.

 

“It wasn’t really as much a  _ party _ as it was a fight for my life,” Peter grimaced. “But yeah… sorry.”

 

“That’s okay,” Deadpool assured him. “You really ought to have invited me, though, maybe I could have caught this guy before he made it so far.”

 

Peter’s heart nearly leapt right out of his mouth.

 

“You— what?”

 

“Well,” Deadpool dragged out the word for  _ way _ too long, but Peter didn’t interrupt. “I saw all the explosions and thought ‘wow! That looks like a fun time! Anybody running away from  _ that _ is either a civilian or an idiot!’ And then, would you believe it? I see a guy in a white mask high-tailing it down the street away from your shindig. So I shot him in the legs— not the head, Spidey, just for you— and knocked him out. I’m getting pretty good at that,” Deadpool added proudly. “Knocking people out instead of killing them.”

 

“Deadpool!” Peter exclaimed, startling his teammates. “That’s amazing! You got him?”

 

“I got him,” Deadpool confirmed, and Peter pumped a fist into the air.

 

“Yes!” His chest was bursting and he could hardly contain himself. “Deadpool, you are officially forgiven for trying to kill me!” Deadpool cheered on the other end of the phone, too loud, but Peter didn’t mind a bit. “Where are you right now?”

 

“I’m about six blocks south of you,” Deadpool told him. “Hurry up, though, I think the cops are on the way.”

 

“Great,” Peter nodded eagerly. He needed to send the recording of this to the police, he thought, resolving to do it… as soon as he got the Chameleon into custody. “On our way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much again to Sunpops1 for all your help!! I can't express how much I appreciate you.
> 
> Woo, this one was a DOOZY to write, hehe. I wrote it all in a feverish haste in like,, maybe four or six hours over two or three days, haha. So exciting! Can you BELIEVE there's only one chapter left????
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think... I'm dying to hear!


	18. One Year Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried when I finished writing this

**September**

 

Spider-Man left the tower.

 

Not unusual, Natasha noted sleepily from where she sat by one of the large windows in her room. She held a cup of hot coffee in her hands and her temple was pressed against the cold glass as she watched the young hero swing away. Despite the early hour, it was becoming a common sight. Spidey would leave the tower as the sun rose, stay out for a few hours, and be back by lunch. It didn’t seem like he was doing any crime fighting: JARVIS told her that there were very few reports of activity by the vigilante during that time period.

 

Something as a civilian, then, she mused, yawning. That was good. That was very promising. She wasn’t entirely sure, of course, but she had suspected that he’d lost his civilian identity along the way. She was glad to see him regaining it, even if it was just for a few hours every morning.

 

She wondered what he did, when he was out there in New York City with his face bared to the world. She wondered if it made him afraid, walking around without the security that being Spider-Man gave him. She wondered if it was a relief.

 

Natasha watched as Spidey disappeared around a corner, just a speck in the air far down the road to the west of the tower. She could find out where he was going, she acknowledged. Or, at least, she could find out where his suit went. The tracker implanted in it was still active, and Spidey knew that. So either he was going somewhere that  _ anyone _ could be, somewhere very public, or he trusted them not to look. Or maybe he didn’t mind if they did.

 

She hoped for the latter, but she kept her wandering mind to herself.

 

She’d wondered plenty about Spider-Man’s identity, of course. Likely more than any of the others. No one could blame her for that: it was her job. It was her responsibility to know who they were dealing with.

 

She had her list of suspects, with one shining name much higher than any other, but she had put her speculation away.

It didn’t matter what his name was, Natasha had decided. It didn’t matter what he looked like. She knew who she was dealing with. She knew who Spider-Man was, whether she knew his identity or not.

 

And besides, it wasn’t as if it would be difficult to find out for sure if it ever became necessary to know. SHIELD had arrived to clean up after their fight in the warehouse last month, and had taken all the clones with them in order to keep them in secure hands.

 

Secure was a very subjective term, though, Natasha knew. She was certain that the scientists over at the organization had removed Spider-Man’s mask immediately, and after that they had almost certainly autopsied, learning more than Spidey ever wanted anyone to have access to.

 

Autopsied, Clint had laughed when she mentioned it to him. More like  _ dissected. _

 

Natasha put that thought away, too. It couldn’t be helped, the things that organizations like SHIELD got up to when there was no one around to stop them. Spidey understood what had probably happened to his clone, and that was what was important. As long as he  _ knew _ , then he could protect himself.

 

Natasha wondered if Spidey had a part time job, chuckling to herself.

 

“JARVIS,” Natasha looked out through the tinted windows, the dull light of morning mostly blocked out by the weight of the tower. “How long ago did we meet Spider-Man?”

 

“One year ago, Miss Romanoff,” JARVIS answered, sounding practically nostalgic. He’d been there, Natasha realized, in Tony’s suit, that very first encounter.

 

“Text Spidey for me,” Natasha yawned again, standing and moving towards the bedroom door. “Tell him to make sure he’s back in time for lunch. We’re celebrating.”

 

“Yes, Miss Romanoff.”

 

\---

 

Bucky found Steve in the common room, idly tapping a stick of charcoal against a blank sheet of paper. “Morning,” he muttered gruffly, and Steve shot him a look, expression easing minutely in that way it sometimes did when he saw Bucky. There was always some hint of relief there, like he was always expecting to be missing Bucky again and was glad that he didn’t have to.

 

“Morning,” Steve murmured back. “Sleep well?”

 

“Not bad,” Bucky nodded slowly, dropping into the chair near Steve’s. “You seen Romanoff this morning?”

 

“No, not yet. Why?”

 

“She says you guys met Spidey a year ago today,” He tipped his head back, eyes closing, and after a moment he heard the scratch of coal against the rough paper of the sketchbook. Bucky held still. “And she wants to do something special for the kid this afternoon.”

 

“That’s a good idea,” Steve agreed, sounding pleased. “Do you know what she had in mind?”

 

“Something low-key, probably,” Bucky answered. 

 

“That sounds more like wishful thinking than anything,” Steve muttered, chuckling to himself.

 

“Yeah, well, I just hope she’s not planning a party or something.”

 

“Doesn’t seem likely,” Steve relented. “Spidey’s been pretty high-energy lately, but sometimes I get the feeling he’s still faking it, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed. “He’s still worn down from all that shit with the Chameleon.” He heard a hum from Steve. “But he’s getting better.”

 

“You see it, too.” It wasn’t really a question, but Bucky hummed back at him.

 

“It would help if we could see his face,” Bucky complained. “But yeah, he seems… better. He’s not so closed off anymore. He actually  _ admitted  _ it the other day when he was feeling down.”

 

“That’s new,” Steve sounded like he was smiling. “That therapy is really starting to pay off.”

 

“Bruce is a miracle worker,” Bucky agreed, and there were a few moments of quiet as the itching sound of Steve’s work filled the space between them. “I’m thinking about… asking if he’s willing to take on another patient.”

 

The pencil stilled. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Bucky let out a slow breath. “I figure… I figure if it’s working so well for Spidey, maybe it could… I don’t know. Make a difference for me, too.”

 

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve’s relief was palpable in the air. “Yeah, I think that might be good.”

 

Bucky lifted his head and opened his eyes, glancing down towards Steve’s sketchbook. There was an affection drawn into the arch of his neck, the set of his chin, the soft, close-eyed expression on the face of the man there. It was hard to believe that it was him.

 

“I want to look like that,” Bucky nodded towards the book, and Steve glanced down. “I want to be that guy.”

 

“You are that guy,” Steve assured him. The coal moved again, bringing to life the shoulder closest to Steve. The metal arm. “He has scars, too.”

 

Bucky laughed under his breath. “Alright, alright,” he waved his metal hand lazily, dismissively, and although it would never feel the same as his real arm, it felt close enough. “Anyway, just… make sure you’re around at lunch time. Romanoff’s orders, okay?”

 

“Okay. Now hold still.”

 

\---

 

Clint was in the gym. He wasn’t working out, mostly he was hanging out on top of the equipment and trying trick shots from weird positions. Why not, right?

 

“How is it that you haven’t managed to give yourself a brain hemorrhage like that?” He heard a dry voice ask, and he twisted as far as he could towards the door. It was difficult, hanging upside down the way he was.

 

“Pure, unadulterated skill,” He answered, voice sounding somewhat choked. There was a  _ lot _ of blood in his head right now. “And probably blind luck. So much of it.”

 

“No kidding,” Tasha snorted, coming into view down on the floor. “Laura is going to kill me if I let you die up there. Come down, would you?”

 

“Aw,  _ mom _ ,” Clint groaned, and even upside down he could see the unimpressed expression on her face.

 

“Come down from there before I  _ bring _ you down.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint had to do some wriggling to get his legs unhooked from the equipment, and he was definitely voiding his worker’s comp by doing that, he realized, but he managed to free himself and drop, somewhat gracelessly, to the floor. At least he didn’t fall on his ass in front of Tasha. That would have been embarrassing.

 

One of her hands pressed against his cheek. “You’re bright red, you dope. How long were you up there?”

 

“I don’t know, what do I look like, a stopwatch?”

 

“No, you look like a tomato,” Tasha scolded. “Get yourself together, Barton. You’ve got to at least  _ try _ to keep a couple of those brain cells alive. I need you to be able to hold a conversation by this afternoon.”

 

“Why?” Clint asked, pushing her hand away. It was probably only due to her apparent good mood that she allowed it. “What’s going on this afternoon?”

 

“Lunch with Spidey and the team.”

 

“We have lunch with Spidey and the team every day,” Clint said with a frown. 

 

“Yeah, and you’ve normally killed off any intelligent speech you might have mustered up by then,” Nat quipped, giving him a slap to the side of the head. It probably didn’t help the lingering dizziness, but if that was the worst she was going to give him, he wasn’t about to complain. “It’s a special occasion today.”

 

“Oh, right,” Clint’s expression opened up, betraying his interest. “Oktoberfest starts today, doesn’t it?”

 

“God, I’m too late,” Tasha groaned, head tipping back. “You already killed them all. You’re already an idiot.”

 

“That has nothing to do with the gymnastics,” Clint sniffed. “That’s just my natural state. So if you’re not talking about the biggest beer-centric festival in the world, what  _ are _ you talking about?”

 

“It’s Spidey’s anniversary with us,” Nat informed him. “We’re all doing lunch, and we’re going to get him a gift.”

 

“Yeah?” Clint pursed his lips, nodding. “You got an idea about what to get him?”

 

“I’ve got an idea,” Nat nodded. “And I’d really like you to not wreck it by acting like a complete buffoon.”

 

“Sorry,” Clint shook his head. “There’s not going to be any avoiding that. Just gonna go ahead and warn you now.”

 

“Yeah,” Tasha’s eyes sparkled with amusement even as she shook her head with mock disappointment. “I know. It was worth a shot, though.”

 

“Fair enough.” Clint slung his bow onto his back to he could cross his arms. “Has it really been a year already? When did we meet him first? I think my first thing with him was the slime, right?”

 

“No,” Tasha shook her head. “He was at the thing with the bees.”

 

“The bees!” Clint exclaimed, nostalgia lighting in his chest. “I forgot about the bees. Those things were  _ huge _ . Yeah, I remember that, he was there. Wow, a year,” He beamed. “Didn’t take long for the little twep to worm his way in here, huh? Too charming for his own good. He even got  _ you _ wrapped around his finger.”

 

“Hardly,” Natasha deadpanned, but the quirk in her lips betrayed the truth. She was just as smitten by the little guy as the rest of them. It was honestly sad, how little resistance they’d managed to put up to his overtures of friendship. Clint would have been worried about it if the kid weren’t unicorn-worthy levels of pure.

 

“You need any help getting this little shindig together?” Clint asked, eyebrows lifting expectantly, and Tasha shrugged. 

 

“I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to tag along.”

 

“Nice. ‘Cause my head is killing me, so I should probably find something else to do for a while.”

 

“Ты абсолютный гребаный идиот, просто иди со мной.”

 

“Hey, there’s no call for the kind of language.”

 

“Let’s go, dumbass,” Natasha snorted, shaking her head one more time as she turned to leave the gym. Clint dutifully stored his bow, deciding not to piss Tony off more than necessary today, before trotting out after her.

 

\---

 

“Tony, have you been up all night?”

 

The voice jostled Tony from his focus and he looked up, blinking owlishly at the intruder in his lab. Oh, wait, no, he had access. “Bruce,” He lifted a hand towards his eyes, intending to rub at them, but then noticed just in time that they were covered in oil and restrained himself. “Hey. All night? What time is it?”

 

“It’s about to be eight o’clock.”

 

“In the morning? Shit. Sorry, Bruce, my bad. I know we said I’d try and get to bed by three, it’s just—”

 

“I know,” Bruce gave him a tired smile and a cup of coffee. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I already know. You’re just a workaholic.”

 

“Does it even count as working when it’s also my main hobby?” Tony challenged, turning back to look at the greasy machinery components in front of him.”Besides, it’s not like it’s for the company or anything, Dum-E just needed a tune-up.”

 

The robot beeped in response.

 

“Tony,” Bruce scolded, leaning against the other side of the table. “You didn’t turn him off? That’s dangerous.”

 

“You don’t give a man anesthesia during brain surgery, Bruce. You gotta keep him awake so you know he’s still working right.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s an apt metaphor.”

 

“Sure it is,” Tony waved a blackened hand in Bruce’s direction. “Who died and made you metaphor king, anyway?”

 

“Isn’t that a Sara Bareilles song?” Bruce wondered aloud, and Tony shot him a disgusted look.

 

“First of all, no, I don’t think that’s how it goes. Secondly, I am so massively disappointed that you even have a vague idea of how one of Sara Bareilles’ songs goes that I can barely look at you.”

 

“Seems like you have a vague idea of how it goes, too,” Bruce challenged him, sipping at his tea. Tony wondered if he’d run out of the ones Spidey had bought for him, yet. He seemed to treat them differently from his normal ones: saving them for special occasions, he claimed.

 

“Shit, busted,” Tony muttered, sticking his fingers back inside Dum-E’s workings before retracting them quickly with a yelp.

 

“Alright,” Bruce stepped in, then rounding the table to grip Tony by the elbow. “That’s enough of that.”

 

“Hey, I’m not a  _ child _ ,” Tony scoffed even as Bruce bodily hauled him away from Dum-E.

 

“You might as well be,” Bruce answered dryly, pulling him over to the sink. “Wash your hands. You’re going to have some breakfast, and then you’re going to take a nap. Natasha said she already talked to you, right?”

 

“Huh? Oh, maybe— about Spidey?”

 

“Right. You need to get some sleep before then so that you aren’t crashing when everybody gets together.”

 

“Oh, whatever,” Tony rolled his eyes, but obediently started to wash his hands. Only for Bruce, he thought sullenly, but his eyes drifted across the lab to the brightly colored stuffed animal safely stored on a shelf between vials of volatile material.

 

Hmm. Maybe he ought to find a better place for Spider-Bear.

 

“Speaking of the man of the hour,” Tony’s eyes tracked back to Bruce. Yeah, that had been a little mechanical. How long had he been up? He wasn’t sure. “Where is he? Still asleep?”

 

“He’s already gone for the morning,” Bruce told him, shaking his head. “He ought to be back in time, though. His schedule’s been pretty consistent lately.”

 

“He’s been sleeping more regularly, huh?” Tony tried to sound casual and uninterested, but he knew that it wouldn’t go unnoticed that he’d been keeping track of Spidey’s sleeping patterns.

 

“Yeah,” That little smile on Bruce’s face was confirmation of his thought. “He’s usually sleeping by one in the morning.”

 

“Still not enough sleep,” Tony said with a frown. “He’s usually gone by, what, six-thirty or seven?”

 

“I don’t think you’re one to talk, Tony,” Bruce snickered, and Tony had to roll his eyes.

 

“We’re working off of ‘do as I say, not as I do’ principles here, okay, Bruce? Just stick with me, here. We need to get that kid to start sleeping in a little later.”

 

“It seems like he’s doing alright, so far,” Bruce mused. “But we can keep an eye on him, make sure he’s doing alright. He’s still sleeping in on weekends, anyway.”

 

Tony snorted. “Just more proof he needs to sleep more.”

 

“Tony, your hands have been clean for a couple of minutes, now, and you’re still washing them. Once again, I don’t think you’re one to talk.”

 

Tony flushed with embarrassment, shutting off the faucet and flicking water from his hands into the sink. “You can’t tell me that you don’t wish Spidey would sleep more.”

 

“I do,” Bruce admitted. “Worries about you aside, I do wish he’d sleep more. But he’s doing okay, Tony. I don’t think you need to kick into Dad Mode.”

 

“Dad Mode!” Tony echoed, outraged. “I am  _ not _ in  _ Dad Mode. _ I’m not the kid’s dad. I’m his mentor-slash-friend-slash-cool-celebrity. I just look out for him because he’s a kid, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He just needs somebody to keep an eye on him, okay, and if that has to be  _ me _ , then that’s not exactly  _ my fault, _ right? He’s just a damn kid, Bruce, you want me to let him stagger around like he’s blind, not knowing which way is up? Obviously I’m going to help him out when I can and worry about him when I can’t. That’s normal. That’s not  _ Dad Mode. _ I’m not…” His voice slowly tapered off as his mind raced, and he finally allowed himself to press a still wet hand to his eyes. “Oh, god, I’m the kid’s dad, aren’t I?”

 

“More or less,” Bruce agreed, sounding more cheerful now that Tony had finally admitted it.  _ Finally admitted it _ , he repeated to himself with no small amount of disgust. How long had this thought been festering at the back of his head? Tony Stark was never meant to be a dad. “Think of yourself as more of a weird co-parent with the rest of the team.”

 

Okay, Tony thought, gut still clenching with nerves. Okay, weird co-parent. He could do weird co-parent.

 

“Anyway,” Bruce’s hand on his shoulder shook him free of his anxiety and he felt a moment of soothing relief. If Bruce could do this, he thought, meeting his eyes, then Tony could do it, too. Besides, it wasn’t like Spidey was  _ expecting _ Tony to be his dad. It had just kind of… happened. “Let’s get you upstairs. You need to be a good role model for Spidey.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, looking at his hands, clean of oil, then back to Dum-E, who had already entered sleep mode, the traitor. “Okay.”

 

\---

 

Thunder rumbled through a clear sky as the Bifrost touched down against Stark Tower around eleven o’clock in the morning.

 

Thor strode into the tower, cape flowing behind him in that way he really liked. He spotted Natasha first, and she stood to greet him.

 

“Thor,” She nodded, and Thor reached out to grip her arm with a flash of a grin as she returned the gesture. “Glad you could make it.”

 

“Of course,” He agreed, forcing himself to sound serious, despite his light-hearted mood. “When Heimdall informed me that you’d been asking for me, I came straight away. So what’s going on? An alien invasion? A new, previously unknown splinter of Hydra? Some sort of horrible beast ravaging the city?”

 

“No,” Natasha’s voice was even, but Thor could still hear the laughter hidden behind it. “I wanted to invite you to lunch.”

 

“Oh,” Thor released Natasha’s arm, a broad grin returning to his face. “Honestly that’s even better.”

 

“I thought you might feel that way,” Natasha agreed with a smile. “We’re celebrating knowing Spider-Man for a year, now.”

 

“Ah! A worthy cause for a feast,” Thor’s eyes crinkled with amusement as Natasha rolled hers. She had caught on a long time ago that he liked to play on the Midgardian’s strange preconceptions of what Asgard must be like, so she wasn’t taken in my his talk of feasts or fighting the way some of the others were. It was a shame that he hadn’t managed to trick her, too, it was  _ very _ funny, but it was nice having someone else in on the joke. “When is it to take place?” He glanced around the room. Steve and Bucky were talking quietly with Clint in one corner, while Bruce and Tony could be heard chattering from the kitchen.

 

“Well, I think it’ll be ready, soon,” Natasha glanced towards the kitchen, one eyebrow quirking, so we’re just waiting on Spidey. He should be here before much longer.”

 

“Perfect,” Thor rubbed his hands together cheerfully. “In the meantime, I’ve had something on my mind, and I hope you can  provide me some answers.”

 

“Sure, Thor,” Natasha’s voice was casually aloof as she turned her attention back to him. She reminded him of Loki, sometimes. “What is it?”

 

“How is young Spider-Man  _ doing _ ? The last time I saw him he was… not as well as I had grown to expect.”

 

“God,” Natasha snorted, shaking her head, and he blinked. “Spidey’s right. We  _ are _ a bunch of worry-warts, aren’t we? It seems like that boy’s been the only topic of conversation in this tower all morning long.”

 

“Oh?” Thor’s arms crossed as he leaned forward, concerned. “Is he still not well?”

 

“No, no,” Natasha shook her head, that smile returning. “He’s doing… pretty good, all things considered. He’s gone through a pretty rough patch, lately, but he’s coming around, now. Things are really looking up for him, I think.”

 

“Excellent,” Thor’s shoulders slumped as he huffed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad.”

 

“Aren’t we all,” Natasha agreed, and the softness in her eyes betrayed the depth of emotion she was feeling that she no doubt had intended to hide.  

 

“Well!” Thor clapped his hands together, visibly startling everyone in the room. “I think I’ll go see if I can provide any assistance in the kitchen.”

 

“Thanks, Thor,” Natasha agreed, and the god turned to stroll towards the archway, feeling good.

 

So Spider-Man was doing better, he thought, the worry he’d harbored for several months now easing. Good.

 

\---

 

Peter scrambled up onto the balcony, his webbing bag clutched in one hand as he fumbled for the doorknob. He managed to open the door to the common room and was surprised to find the entire team loitering around inside. He hastily dropped the bag and slid it out of sight of the door, letting it rest on the balcony. It would be fine there for now.

 

“Spidey!” Clint called his name first, attracting the attention of the other Avengers. Everyone looked so happy, Peter marveled, heart lifting rapidly. “Welcome back.”

 

“Uh— thanks,” He couldn’t contain the grin that spread under his mask. “What’s going on?”

 

“It’s lunch time,” Natasha told him, head tilting towards the kitchen. “We were waiting for you.”

 

“Oh— you didn’t have to do that,” Peter felt touched that they had, though. “You could have eaten without me.”

 

“Not today we couldn’t twerp,” Tony came up beside him slinging an arm around his shoulders and steering him for the kitchen. 

 

“Today? Why not?” Peter glanced over his shoulder as the rest of the Avengers began to migrate into the kitchen with them.

 

“One year ago today,” Steve told him, voice full of pride. “We met a young hero with a bad reputation and a lot of potential.”

 

“Today?” Peter said again, racking his brain. How had it been a year already? So much had happened, but it felt like such a short time ago. “Wow, seriously?”

 

“Seriously,” Bucky agreed, and Peter twisted to spot him as Tony pushed him down into a chair.

 

“I didn’t realize you guys had been keeping track,” Peter admitted.

 

“I don’t think you understand what an impact you’ve had on this team,” Bruce told him, sitting down across from him. Seats were filling up quickly, and Peter realized this was way more of them than there usually were at once. It was cool, the whole group being together like this. “We’re all glad to have you in our lives.”

 

“Wow,” Peter’s heart was making a bid for escape, scrambling up into his throat. “You guys, that’s… that’s really nice.”

 

“It’s  _ true _ ,” Thor corrected him, and Peter couldn’t stop smiling, now. His anxiety was melting away in the face of its most feared adversary: the love and support of the people around him.

 

God, that was cheesy, Peter thought with an internal cringe, but it didn’t lessen the moment in the slightest.

 

As if to confirm his thoughts, Natasha slid into the seat next to him, speaking. “We care about you, Spidey,” She told him. “And we’re glad you’re here. I think I speak for everyone when I say… we love you, Spidey.”

 

“Oh my god,” Peter was glad that the mask was hiding the way his face was screwing up with emotion. “I can’t believe you guys are cornering me like this right now,” he giggled and the sound was a little too tearful to pass off as nonchalant. A round of laughter circled the table, but Peter swallowed and spoke up again. “I… I’m so touched, you guys. I love you, too. You’re like…” He glanced around at the assembled Avengers. They were all watching him with tenderness in their eyes that he’d seen in Gwen’s eyes. He’d seen it in Aunt May and Uncle Ben. And before that, when he was almost too young to remember, in the eyes of his parents. “You’re family to me.”

 

Natasha placed an envelope on the table and slid it in front of him. 

 

“This is for you, you little sap,” She murmured, and Peter giggled again, running a hand over the top of his mask. 

 

“Really? You didn’t have to get me anything. Gosh, now I look like a jerk. I didn’t get you guys anything.”

 

“Just open it, you dweeb,” Clint told him from further down the table, where he had his chin propped on both fists and a grin spread over his face. 

 

Peter rolled his eyes, but picked up the envelope. It wasn’t sealed, so he flipped it open and pulled out a piece of plastic the size of a credit card. Peter stared at it, disbelieving for a few moments before reading the words printed there aloud.

 

“Official Avengers Membership Card,” Peter looked at Tony. “Is this for real?”

 

“Well, the card is fake,” Tony told him, earning a glare from Natasha. “None of the rest of us have cards. But the offer is real.”

 

“Wait— you want me to be an Avenger?” Peter’s brain was shorting out. “I’m— what?”

 

“If you want to,” Bruce impressed on him. “Only if you want to.”

 

“No pressure,” Steve agreed. “It’s your choice. But even if you say no, the offer is going to stand. If you ever change your mind, then you’re still invited.”

 

Peter stared at the card in his hand. His heart was racing. He wasn’t an Avenger, he thought. He wasn’t sure he  _ deserved _ to be an Avenger.

 

“D-don’t you need to know who I am in order for me to be an Avenger?” Peter stammered, eyebrows furrowing under his mask.

 

“SHIELD probably already knows,” Natasha told him with a shrug. “And they’re the only ones who would even have a reason to  _ need _ to know. The rest of us don’t need to. We know you, Spidey. We trust you. And we want you with us.”

 

“We want you in the family,” Thor spoke up, and Peter swallowed hard around that revelation.

 

“Of course, you’ll be a part of the family even if you say no,” Clint added flippantly. “There’s no getting away from us now. It’s  _ way _ too late for that.”

 

“You should have ducked out after that first meeting if you wanted to get out of being our little brother,” Natasha bumped his shoulder and Peter laughed, doubt clearing.

 

“I don’t want out,” He informed her as he turned to look at her. “It’s too late for me to get rid of you?  _ Ha _ . Just wait until you try and get rid of  _ me _ . I tend to  _ stick _ .”

 

“God,” Natasha pressed a palm against her eyes as the other occupants of the room groaned. “Alright, I’m revoking your card. Give it back.”

 

“No way,” Peter stuffed it into one of his pockets, chin high with pride. “I’m keeping it. In fact, As the only Avenger with an actual Official Membership Card, I’m gonna have to institute a  _ no retaliation for puns _ rule.”

 

“Absolutely not,” Steve spoke up, vetoing him, and Peter grinned, shrugging one shoulder.

 

“Worth a shot.”

 

“So is this a yes?” Thor prodded him across Natasha, and Peter nodded.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed, beaming. “Yeah, it’s a yes.” He looked around the table to find unabashed delight and downright glee on the faces around him.

 

“Welcome to the Avengers, Spidey,” Tony had a grin on his face more sincere than any Peter had ever seen him wear, and it began to sink in that these people really did care about him as much as they claimed.

 

Wow.

 

“Cheers, Spidey,” Clint lifted a can of soda in salute to him, corny but full-spirited enough that the other Avengers seemed to feel compelled to follow.

 

“Cheers!”

 

“Let’s eat,” Thor urged, and the kitchen dissolved into the sounds of utensils clinking against bowls and plates as food was served out. Peter still felt so overwhelmed that he couldn’t bring himself to reach for food, but it hardly mattered: the Avengers seemed perfectly content to load up his plate for him.

 

As the others dug in around him, Peter’s heart swelled and he felt a shift in his world as the Avenger’s kitchen turned into his kitchen. The Avenger’s tower turned, just like that, into home.

 

“Eat up, Spidey,” Steve instructed him, and Peter rose back up to the surface of the smooth, rosy-gold water of his thoughts.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed, feeling the coils of tension that lived in his body relax.

 

\---

 

Peter was practically glued to the television when Bruce and Tony staggered out of the elevator around nine in the morning. A quick glance told him all he needed to know: they’d been up all night again, working on something that almost certainly could have waited while they got some sleep. But hey, who was he to judge? He did his best mechanical work in the middle of the night, too.

 

“Hey, Spidey,” Bruce saw him first and greeted him with a wave, stifling a yawn with his other hand. “Good morning.”

 

“Morning, twerp,” Peter could see Tony nodding towards him in his periphery as he shuffled past and into the kitchen. He was after coffee, Peter thought, smiling under his mask as he heard the gurgling sound of the machine being turned on.

 

“Hey, guys,” Peter greeted them from where he sat, knees practically pulled up to his chin. It was a distracted enough greeting that it clearly struck some kind of cord in the two of them, because Bruce paused in the door before Tony pushed past him to come back out into the common room.

 

“What are you watching there, Thwippy?” Tony asked, coming up behind him to lean on the couch. 

 

“The news,” Peter informed him, sparing only a short glance up. “Have you heard about this? Reed Richards, that physicist? He and some other people—” He read the names off the screen as they scrolled by, pointing. “Sue Storm, Johnny Storm, and Ben Grimm— there was some kind of accident.”

 

“An accident?” Bruce came over, then, voice concerned. “What kind of accident? Are they okay?” It occurred to Peter that these guys might actually  _ know _ Reed Richards and that this was  _ not _ the best way to introduce them to the story.

 

“Yeah! Look!” Peter flapped his hand at the screen. “Apparently they got hit by some kind of radiation burst, or something, and now they all have super powers. They’re calling themselves the Fantastic Four!”

 

“No shit?” Tony propped himself on his elbows. He was crowding Peter, but it was fine. As close as they had become, Peter didn’t think he would be able to begrudge  _ Tony Stark _ being in his space. “Well, it stands to reason,” he added airily a moment later. “Richards always  _ did _ copy everything I did, it makes sense that he’d try and horn in on this, too.”

 

“He wasn’t  _ copying  _ you, Tony,” Bruce snorted from where he was sliding down into the seat next to Peter. His heart almost couldn’t take it for a second, there, but then he refocused on the superbeings on screen. “It’s called scientific advancement.”

 

“It’s called  _ sci _ entific ad _ vancement _ ,” Tony repeated in an incredibly childish mockery of Bruce’s voice that only served to make the other man laugh. “Yeah, right. I bet you he’s working on an arc reactor of his own  _ right now _ ,” Tony crossed his arms sullenly over the glow in his chest and Peter shot him a grin.

 

“I don’t know, Tony,” he said with a shrug. “If he manages to figure out this radiation thing he’s working on, he won’t  _ need _ an arc reactor.”

 

“Nobody asked your opinion,” Tony informed him with a withering glare that made Peter giggle uncomfortably before turning back around to the television.

 

“So,  _ anyway _ ,” Peter continued. “Apparently they have superpowers now and they’re a superhero team and everything. They just fought like, a bunch of mole men or something this morning. It was  _ insane _ . I wish I’d heard about it before it was over, I would have gone to help out! You know, say hello, welcome to the neighborhood, we have a Superhero Association meeting this Friday, and Beth is bringing gluten free brownies.”

 

“Honestly, I feel like sometimes he’s trying to say something,” Tony said over Peter’s head to Bruce, who was grinning. “God, it’s almost like he wants to  _ communicate _ . But those sounds coming out of his mouth just can’t be  _ language _ . They make no sense.”

 

“Maybe  _ Reed Richards _ can spend some time devoted to the study of understanding Spider-Speech,” Peter huffed the challenge and he felt Tony’s knuckles dig into the top of his mask, ruffling affectionately.

 

“If he did, he would only be copying Tony,” Bruce added with a snicker. “He would say that that’s what he’s been doing this past year and Dr. Richards was stealing his research again.”

 

“Well he  _ would be _ ,” Tony flicked Peter’s ear, then straightened up. “I’m getting coffee. And just for that, Bruce, you’re not getting any.”

 

“I drink tea anyway,” Bruce reminded him, staying on the couch next to Peter as both of them turned their attention away from the sulking billionaire in the room, which, somehow, was not a weird thing for Peter to ignore, anymore.

 

On the screen, the Fantastic Four were disappearing back into the Baxter Building where they lived.

 

“It kind of sucks,” Peter mused aloud. “That they never even had the  _ choice _ of hiding their identities. Their station was  _ streaming _ them when that radiation burst hit.” He laughed, thrusting a hand towards the screen, where the news station was recycling footage from earlier, talking over the shaky, flickering shots of them fighting. Now  _ those _ were some superpowers! “They’re not even wearing masks, everybody already knew even before they decided to be superheroes! How on Earth do they intend to ever have privacy again?”

 

“Living somewhere like the Baxter Building probably helps,” Bruce offered, and Peter nodded reluctantly, acknowledging that the high security of the building probably kept sightseers at a safe distance.

 

“Yeah, but what about living a normal life? How do they expect to live their lives, you know, without people mobbing them?”

 

“People don’t mob  _ us _ ,” Bruce reminded him, then frowned. “Well, Steve and Tony, maybe, and Thor sometimes, but the rest of us aren’t all that recognizable.”

 

“Yeah, but these guys are already kind of low-key celebrities, right?” Peter leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “Johnny Storm— that guy probably gets  _ paid _ by the tabloids, he’s in them so often. And obviously Dr. Richards is famous.”

 

“Not everyone is as concerned with the day-to-day lives of scientists as you are, Spidey,” Tony spoke up as he returned, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. “Most people are just content to hear about the cool shit we put out, instead of worrying about what brand of corn flakes we like best.”

 

“That was  _ not _ me being creepy,” Peter insisted, thrusting a finger accusingly towards Tony. “That was just me  _ noticing _ that you get the unsweetened kind all the time instead of the  _ frosted _ ones, which are the good ones.”

 

“You’ll thank me when you’re older,” Tony deadpanned, flopping down onto the couch on Peter’s other side. Somehow his hand had, apparently, achieved some kind of gyroscopic state, because the coffee didn’t so much as slosh over the edge of the mug. He was  _ so cool _ .

 

“Not likely,” Peter wrapped his arms back around his knees as he leaned forward, the eyes of his mask glinting with the reflected light from the television. “Maybe we should go say hi.”

 

“What?” Bruce shot him a surprised look.

 

“I’m just saying,” Peter shrugged. “It can be… hard, having new powers, not knowing what’s going on, getting started. We could be neighborly about it.” 

 

“Neighborly?” Tony stared at him. “Well, hell, we are neighbors, aren’t we?”

 

“Yeah, they’re like, right next door, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony looked out the window. They could actually see the Baxter building, Peter realized. It was right there, diagonally across the street. It was so strange to think that inside that building were four new superheroes.

 

“How weird is that,” Peter vocalized the thought. “Having superheroes for neighbors?”

 

“You’ve had superheroes for roommates for months, now,” Bruce pointed out, and Peter waved a hand dismissively.

 

“It’s not the same thing. These guys aren’t part of the Avengers. They’re… something else.”

 

“What, so the Avengers are just a bunch of nobodies, now, huh?” Tony demanded, shooting him a sour look, and Peter relented.

 

“No,” Peter corrected him with a hidden grin. “I just mean that they’re not part of the family.”

 

That gave Tony pause. “You sappy little monster,” Tony elbowed him, but there was a hint of happiness in his voice as the tension eased out of his shoulders. “Shut up.”

 

“But really though,” Peter said, pushing himself up off the couch and crossing to the window. The tinted glass on the other building obviously was too dark to see inside, but they were  _ there _ , he knew. “I think I might go introduce myself.

 

“Are you sure they want visitors right now?” Bruce prompted. “They’re probably going through a lot right now.”

 

“Yeah, exactly,” Peter agreed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “They’re gonna need somebody they can rely on. It’s easier, that way.” It dawned on him slowly that the Avengers had taught him that lesson. Before, he’d been so ready to go it alone. But now…

 

It was easier, with someone to lean on.

 

Peter smiled.

 

“Gotta pay it forward, right?” He spun around, hands propped on his hips. “You guys helped me when I needed it. You’re  _ still _ helping me. It’s only right that I do the same for them. Or, at least, I can try.”

 

“Alright,” Tony groaned, draining the last of his coffee. “I see where you’re going with this. You want to invite them to the tower. Fine, kid, do what you want.”

 

“What, and make them feel like they’ve been  _ summoned _ by the  _ real heroes _ ?” Peter made air quotes around his words as he stressed them. “Definitely not. I’m going to them. Besides, it’s not like it’s far. One swing’ll have me on the roof.”

 

“Jesus. Okay. Do you want company?”

 

Tony Stark just asked Peter if he wanted company on his mission to go welcome the Fantastic Four to the slowly growing superhero community. Peter had gone through a lot of crap, in this last year, but that was one of the coolest things that had ever happened to him.

 

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, nodding rapidly. “That would be cool. Should we invite the whole team?”

 

“That might be… a little much,” Bruce spoke up quickly. “You don’t want to overwhelm them.”

 

“Oh— right. Yeah. Good call.” Peter flashed a thumbs up to Bruce, who relaxed into the couch. “Do you want to come, though?”

 

“I’d better not,” Bruce grimaced as Tony flicked his wrists, summoning one of his suits. A flashy one, no doubt. “Ben… he might not take too kindly to me showing up.”

 

“Why?” Peter asked, blinking. “You guys have… stuff in common, right?”

 

“Exactly,” Bruce agreed. “It might be something of a sore spot. I’d better not prod, for now.”

 

Right, Peter realized. It didn’t seem like Ben was able to turn back to his normal self. It might make him upset to see Bruce Banner, notably  _ not _ the Hulk.

 

“Okay,” Peter agreed, nodding. By the time he turned back to Tony, he was clad in gleaming red and gold. Definitely a more ornate suit than normal. “I didn’t realize this was a black tie event,” He quipped, and Tony’s arms crossed.

 

“If it was a black tie event, I’d have already punted you out the window myself. So are we going or what?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter rushed for the balcony, tugging the doors open. “We’re going.”

 

\---

 

_ Peter stood outside the door, a smile on his face. He had just knocked, and it opened to reveal Aunt May beaming at him. _

 

_ “Peter, Gwen,” She exclaimed, delighted, and Gwen was there next to him, holding her hand. “I’m so happy you could make it. Come inside!” _

 

_ “Hi, Aunt May,” Peter stepped forward and hugged her tightly for hours, grief and joy warring nonsensically in his chest. “Thanks for having us.” He let go and made room for Gwen, who hugged Aunt May as he looked around. The apartment was just as it always was: photos on the walls, television turned to the news where a story on the Avengers played, Aunt May’s coat hung next to Uncle Ben’s on the rack. “Is Uncle Ben here?” _

 

_ “Of course, of course,” Aunt May fussed over him as he and Gwen hung up their coats, shaking off the summer heat. “How are the kids?” Peter hooked his Spider-Man mask onto one of the pegs and looked away from it to find Gwen. She didn’t look right, but it was her. She was so beautiful. _

 

_ “They’re good,” Peter beamed at her. He and Gwen had two or three kids, or maybe she had said  _ kid _ , and they only had one. It was hard to say for sure. “Bruce is watching them, tonight.” _

 

_ “How sweet,” They were in the kitchen, watching Aunt May cook. Peter knew she and Gwen were talking, but all he could do was watch the two of them. It didn’t matter what they were saying, just that they were saying it. The two of them had a rapport built over years of closeness that introduced a burst of love into the still tumultuous emotions still wrestling inside him. He put his Spider-Man mask on the table with a smile. _

 

_ There was a hand on his shoulder and Peter turned around. He was standing in the park with Uncle Ben, who hugged him like he always did, and for a few moments, Peter couldn’t breathe. _

 

_ “Good to see you, Pete,” He mumbled, face soft, graying hair showing no sign of the years that were supposed to have past. Peter smiled back at him. “It’s good to see you.” _

 

_ “It’s good to see you, too, Uncle Ben,” Peter’s chest felt tight, but he was so happy. _

 

_ “You look good, Pete,” Uncle Ben was examining him. “Better than you’ve looked in a while.” _

 

_ “I  _ feel _ better,” Peter agreed, sitting down on the bench near them. Uncle Ben sat next to him and Peter set the mask between them. _

 

_ “I’m glad,” Uncle Ben slung an arm around his shoulders, and Gwen and Aunt May sat down at the table across from them. Aunt May had set up dinner while he wasn’t looking. _

 

_ “I love you,” Peter said to his Uncle, then to his Aunt, “I love you.” He met Gwen’s eyes. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes. “I love you.” _

 

_ “We love you, too.” _

 

_ “Peter,” It was Gwen, and he turned to look at her fully. “What is that in your hands?” _

 

_ Peter looked down at where he was holding the mask. Those eyes stared passively back up at him, and Peter found that the malice he’d feared that he would find there was absent. _

 

_ “My mask,” Peter answered. “I’m Spider-Man.” _

 

_ “Oh,” Gwen nodded, like it was no big deal, and Aunt May chuckled. _

 

_ “Well what are you doing waiting around here, dear?” She prompted, forcing a frown that didn’t fit with the laughter still lingering in her eyes. “Don’t you have work to do?” _

 

_ “Yeah,” Peter looked at the mask again, heart beating faster. “I do.” He pulled the mask over his face and saw his family smiling at him. Uncle Ben, Aunt May, Gwen, Steve, Tony, Bucky, Natasha, Clint, Thor, Bruce. “I’ll see you guys later.” _

 

_ “Stay safe,” Steve warned him as Aunt May started filling his plate. _

 

_ “Call us if you need anything,” Tony added, helping himself. _

 

_ “I will,” Peter agreed, waving as he turned to jog out the door. “Love you!” _

 

_ “We love you, too, Peter.” _

 

Peter woke up with his alarm, groping blindly on the bedside table until he managed to close his hand on it. Time to get up, he thought, blinking blearily behind his lenses. He tapped the screen on to shut off the jangling music and caught sight of a text.

 

**MM: I think I have everything I need for your case. Don’t worry about coming in today; just take a day off. Sleep in. I’ll get in contact with you on Monday and we’ll start the proceedings**

**PP: Oh ok**

**PP: Sounds good**

**PP: So Ill talk to you on monday then**

**PP: Thanks for everything Matt**

**MM: You’re welcome, Peter. I’m glad I could help out**

 

He got to stay home today, Peter thought with a sleepy kind of content, burrowing back under his blankets.

 

_ Home _ .

 

Peter made a decision and slowly the sleep crept away from his brain.

 

He needed to take a shower, he thought, reluctantly dragging himself out of bed. Shutting himself securely in the bathroom, he tugged his mask off and gave himself an appraising once-over in the mirror.

 

He looked so  _ normal _ .

 

No point in wasting time staring at a perfectly normal guy in the mirror, Peter thought with no small amount of pleasure before turning the water on in the shower. He had places to be.

 

\---

 

The Avengers still met for breakfast every morning, even though Spidey didn’t usually attend anymore. Steve insisted that it was good for team building, despite the fact that they were all close enough to consider each other family by now.

 

He was just a sap, Bucky knew.

 

Bucky wasn’t sure why he bothered to turn up to these team bonding things. He was still mostly asleep by the time JARVIS finally managed to usher him out of his room and up to the common floor. He sat at the table silently, eating whatever had been cooked that morning without much comment. The others chattered around him and, sure, he heard what they were saying, but this wasn’t a surveillance mission. He was supposed to join in.

 

He just wasn’t much of a joiner, he supposed. 

 

That morning was much like the others. He could hear JARVIS trying to wake him up, but he pulled a pillow over his head in an attempt to block him out.

 

“St. Barnes,” JARVIS continued to pester him. Tony had programmed him to do just that, Bucky was sure. “Good morning. Cpt. Rogers has requested your presence for breakfast.” Bucky groaned under the pillow, stretching his legs out under the blankets. 

 

“Jesus Christ. You people are relentless. Tell him I’ll be there in ten.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Ten minutes was maybe something of an underestimation: it took him eight just to manage to get out of bed. He doubted that anyone would have much more to say about it than a few snide comments about cold food, though, so he didn’t push himself too much. Today was a gray kind of day where he really just wanted to stay in bed the whole time, but hell, it wasn’t like he’d manage to get much more sleep anyway.

 

It was nearly twenty minutes later that he shuffled out of the elevator, still in the same clothes he’d fallen asleep in last night. He could hear chatter coming from the kitchen already and he rolled his eyes, bracing himself.

 

Inside the majority of the Avengers were sat at the table, eating already. Spidey was, predictably, absent, but everyone else seemed to have showed up already. Steve caught his eye, mischief on his face like he intended to tease, but he seemed to think better of it when he took in Bucky’s somewhat haggard appearance. Thank fuck for that at least, he thought as Steve turned back to where he was talking to Natasha.

 

Bucky slumped down into one of the empty seats at the table with his back to the wall. Old habits, he thought tiredly, glad that there was still a seat available with a view of the door. The best view of the door, actually, he mused as he halfheartedly forked a waffle onto his plate. Considering that the other empty chair was directly across from him, and every other chair would have an at least partially obstructed view of anyone who were to enter the room. It was so perfect that he kind of had to wonder whether they’d done it on purpose, knowing how he could be about sitting in a vulnerable position.

 

They weren’t so bad, he supposed.

 

Bucky was still haphazardly smearing cold butter onto the cold waffle when a teenager strode into the room and sat down across from Bucky. The conversation in the room stopped cold as everyone noticed Peter Parker sitting at their breakfast table, helping himself to their scrambled eggs.

 

The silence in the room was complete except for the clink of Peter’s fork against the ceramic of his plate as he doggedly ignored the stares of the Avengers.

 

He didn’t look exactly like the Chameleon had represented him, but it was close. So close that he was immediately recognizable despite the fact that the imposter had been the only time Bucky had seen Peter’s face before today. He found himself fascinated as he soaked in the details: longish, fluffy hair, full cheeks, brown eyes. Those freckles they’d seen on his jaw a million times found a home with the ones that powdered his cheekbones and forehead.

 

As he took in the superficial features, he noticed the lines of tension in Peter’s shoulders. The way he held his head down, not looking at anyone, not speaking, not doing much at all to draw attention to himself despite the fact that it was way too late for that. The poor kid looked terrified, he thought with a surge of sympathy that developed rapidly into pride. He was terrified, but he was here.

 

Casting his attention around the table, he found that the Avengers were downright gaping at Peter: aside from Natasha, of course, who looked just as proud as Bucky felt. None of them had found any words to say, yet, but Bucky knew that it was only a matter of time. In a few minutes, in a few seconds, there would be an explosion and everyone would be all over the poor kid. He didn’t deserve to have to put up with that.

 

Bucky decided to throw him a bone. Kicking Stark under the table managed to drag the man’s attention towards him, and Bucky locked eyes with him for a moment. Follow my lead, he demanded silently, hoping that the rattled-looking Stark would get the message.

 

“Morning, Spidey,” He grumbled, as if it were a normal morning. He caught several incredulous stares headed straight for him before he lowered his own head again, waiting for a response from Spidey.

 

“Uh,” The kid’s voice— god, it was a kid’s voice. He recognized it, obviously, but it was so strange to have all the pieces in front of him finally connecting. “Good morning.”

 

“Morning,” Stark wrenched his gaze away from Bucky to redirect on Peter with that laser focus. “So, Spidey…” Bucky prepared to kick Stark under the table again, but he relaxed again as he continued. “Sleep well?”

 

Peter shot Stark a grateful look, and it was so,  _ so _ weird to see the expression he’d always hidden behind that mask of his. “Yeah. Really well. Thanks.”

 

“Sure. Anyway, Bruce, as I was saying: it’s really not as impressive as he thinks it is, because the last time we tried that, it all turned out to be a monumental waste of money and time that ultimately came to nothing. I get that it’s scientific advancement, and any scientific advancement is  _ good _ , but don’t you think we could find some kind of application that’s less  _ objectively stupid _ ?”

 

As Stark blathered on to Bruce about…  _ whatever _ he was talking about, the tension bled from the room. Steve turned back to Natasha, who gave Bucky a nod before returning to her conversation. Clint and Thor, silent for the entire exchange, quickly went back to thumb wrestling under the table, although he could see them glancing over at Peter more often than they were paying attention to each other.

 

Bucky felt eyes on him and he looked up to find Spidey looking at him, gratitude shining out of his eyes. Bucky could still feel the energy brimming in the room: everyone was  _ dying _ to pester Spidey about this, but for the moment they were letting it slide.

 

After all, it was way too damn early for all this drama.

 

Bucky grabbed for the syrup and drowned his pancake in it. 

 

\---

 

It was some hours later that they all found themselves crammed into the common room. The afternoon sun was shining in through the window and the sky outside was blue. The television was shut off and Peter Parker was sitting in a web hammock across from the couches, so that he could see everyone.

 

“So that’s the situation,” Peter said, nerves bubbling in his stomach. “With my family and Gwen gone, CPS is going to want to send me to live with my cousin across the country. But I really, really don’t want to leave New York. That’s a big reason I… haven’t told you guys who I am until now. I didn’t want to put you in any kind of situation where you had a runaway kid on your hands that you felt like you needed to do something about.”

 

“We could have helped you, you stubborn little jerk,” Tony said, crossing his arms. “We have a lot more resources than a runaway teenager does.”

 

“I know,” Peter held up his hands apologetically, grinning wryly. He caught Clint doing a double-take, like he hadn’t expected to see Peter’s face when he looked away from Tony. They kept doing that, he thought with good humor. Every time someone looked at him, they’d get that startled look all over again. He had kind of thought that it would be a one-time thing, and then they would stop forgetting, but it was like it was new every time. “But I was scared, you know? I didn’t want… I wasn’t willing to  _ risk _ it.”

 

“But you are, now?” Steve prompted him, sounding a little touched.

 

“Well— yes and no,” Peter admitted, running his hand through his hair, and he could see every pair of eyes tracking the movement. This was so weird. “See, I definitely trust you guys. And I’m willing to take risks to be here with you. But… the risk of you guys turning me in is kind of a moot point, now.”

 

“Wait,” Natasha spoke up, then, her voice sharpening as she continued. “You don’t mean that you’re leaving, do you?”

 

“No! No, I’m not leaving,” Peter’s grin was filling up his whole face, he could feel the way it stretched his cheeks and he could see returning smiles on the faces of the other Avengers before he even continued. “I’ve been… working with a lawyer. Trying to get everything settled.”

 

“What do you mean?” Clint asked, brows furrowing. “How can you even  _ afford _ a lawyer?”

 

“I’ve been working with this really great guy, Matt Murdock— the guy who did that trial on Wilson Fisk last year? He’s an amazing lawyer  _ and _ he does cases pro bono. He’s been helping me out for free just because he wants to help and he knows I can’t pay him.” Peter puffed up with pride.

 

“Spidey, I’ve got lawyers,” Tony burst out, looking agitated. “I could have helped you with all this. You didn’t have to go looking for free lawyers.”

 

“No, I get that, I do,” Peter assured him. “But I wanted to be able to prove to the judge that I can take care of myself.”

 

“What judge?” Bruce was frowning at him. “What have you been working on?”

 

“Well,” Peter beamed again, straightening his back. “Next Monday we’re going to be petitioning for my legal emancipation from my guardian. I’ll be  _ basically _ a legal adult. I won’t have to move away and I’ll be able to take care of myself.” He looked a little sheepish. “The last thing I have to do is find a job. Then I’ll meet all the qualifications, and we’ll be all ready to go. But it’s, um, a little difficult to find a job that pays enough to be financially independent when you’re sixteen. So I was kind of hoping…” He turned his best puppy-dog eyes on Tony. “Do you remember back when we met and you said that if I ever needed a job I should come to you because you’re always looking to hire people like me who like to invent stuff or whatever but to be honest I’m not entirely sure exactly what you said but I do remember that you offered me a job if I ever wanted one and well I don’t like to ask because I know it’s kind of weird especially now that you know how old I am but I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you have any open positions I would really, really like one and I don’t even necessarily mean an inventing one or anything even if you need someone to, I don’t know, sweep floors or wash out beakers or  _ whatever _ you need, really anything, well I’d be willing to do it, I just need to get paid so that the judge will see that I’m financially independent or else he’ll deny my case and—”

 

Tony interrupted. “Okay, look, Spidey, I was going to wait for you to burn yourself out, there, but it kind of doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. Consider yourself hired. We’ll find something for you to do around here, don’t worry.”

 

Peter’s relief washed over him in a wave and he dropped backwards, groaning a sigh that was part elation, part running out of breath. “Oh my gosh, I’ve been working up the nerve to say that for  _ weeks _ , I can’t believe it. Wow. Oh my gosh. What a relief.” He lifted his head, grinning at Tony. “Thanks. Thank you. I really can’t thank you enough.”

 

“Yeah, but you _ can _ thank me too much,” Tony flapped a hand at him. “Calm down, Spidey, don’t make a mess on my carpet, or I’ll make it your job to clean that up.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter sat back up, sheepish despite the wide smile still clinging to his face. “Sorry.”

 

“So how long is this whole court thing going to take?” Steve asked, brow furrowing. Peter shrugged.

 

“It can take up to six months. I was kind of worried about that at first, actually: since I was appealing to the court, I’d have to submit to the law and stop being a runaway. I thought that they’d send me out to live with my cousin in the meantime, which would mean no job.” His nose wrinkled. “But Matt and I called my cousin. He’s a nice guy, but he’s really getting too old to be raising kids, so when Matt suggested that he let me stay with friends in New York, he allowed it. Did you know that’s legal? He can just  _ let me live in New York _ . And yeah, I mean, if those friends were to ask for money to support me, he’d have to do it, but, I’m kind of hoping they won’t.”

 

“Spidey,” Clint spoke up, then. “You kind of sound like you’re planning on living with someone else. You know you’re not allowed to do that, right? As an Avenger, you have to live here in the tower. It’s in the contract.”

 

Peter laughed. “I didn’t  _ sign _ a contract. And besides, even if I did, I’m not emancipated yet. Any contracts I sign aren’t legally binding.”

 

“So you’re leaving after all,” Natasha said, her voice carefully neutral, and Peter whipped his head around to look at her, eyes wide.

 

“No! I— did you guys  _ want _ me to stay here? I wasn’t sure, because of the whole weird situation, I was kind of thinking I’d ask Jessica, um, my friend Jessica, but if you want me to stay,” His voice was high and confused, but Peter’s heart was racing. He could feel tears prickling behind his eyes and for a moment he assumed it was grief, because that’s what it  _ always  _ was. But it was happiness, he realized as the feeling settled in. “If you want me to stay then of course I will.”

 

Peter watched as the other Avengers glanced between themselves.

 

“Peter,” Steve said his name as he turned back to face him. In his eyes was the kind of compassion Peter automatically equated with love. “Of course we want you to stay.”

 

Peter felt a clog in his throat as he smiled so wide that it hurt, nodding once, firmly. “Okay,” He agreed. “So that settles it.”

 

“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! That's the end of the story!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read this. Every one of you made such an impact on me and I'm so grateful to all of you. I can't thank you enough. This fic and the response to it has meant the world to me and I'm just,, so grateful.
> 
> I love you guys <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> I of course want to thank my pre-post readers for the first ten chapters: 
> 
> My alpha reader, Totallytwistedwords, who let me talk about Spider-Man endlessly and message her at three in the morning to ask her opinion and then read my chapters and told me the impact of it and how it read and caught plotholes. 
> 
> And my beta reader, Rachelmap2, who picked through my chapters with a fine-toothed comb, catching the errors I'd never notice on my own. 
> 
> So thanks very much to the both of you, FOR REALS.
> 
> And I want to thank everyone who read this, everyone who left kudos, everyone who subscribed and bookmarked and especially everyone who commented. All that feedback is more than I ever could have hoped for and it really helped me to push through the times when I thought I might give up on this. I can't thank you enough.
> 
> Well, I hope that everyone enjoyed the fic! It meant so much to me to write it and now that it's over I feel like I'm feeling so emotional. I hope you guys will comment so you can tell me what you thought. I'd legitimately love to hear.
> 
> Please feel free to join my discord server over at https://discord.gg/MkPB9m ! There will be extended discussion about this fic as well as information on future projects of mine that are still to come... not to mention the friendly chatter :) 
> 
> Thank you again, so much, for reading!


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